


The Thing About Life

by luridCavum



Series: The Thing About Life [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Christianity, M/M, Multi, Photography, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Roman Catholicism, Slow Build, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Terminal Illnesses, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 74,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luridCavum/pseuds/luridCavum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>chron·ic /kränik/<br/>Adjective:<br/>(of an illness) persisting for a long time or constantly recurring.</p>
<p>ter·mi·nal /ˈtərmənl/<br/>Adjective:<br/>(of a disease) Predicted to lead to death, esp. slowly; incurable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: mentions of death, smoking, semi-explicit sex.

Dean Winchester is not a morning person. Neither could you really consider him a mid-morning, noontime, or mid-afternoon person. He's more of a swell-of-the-evening type of person, when the sun dips just below the horizon and paints the sky every shade of red and gold. Sometimes, he likes to look up at the stars staring back at him. It makes him realize how entirely insignificant he is. But that's okay, really.  
  
Dean isn't a morning person, yet he somehow finds himself awake before the sun, a few stray stars still blinking in through the open window. Through the fog of sleep, he hears his name being called from the kitchen down the hall, by a voice that's always far too energized for such an ungodly hour of the morning.  
  
“C'mon, hurry up! I made breakfast!”

He can't help but grin. He shouts back that he'll be ready in a minute, tacking on the nickname his brother hates so much. His grin only widens when he hears the familiar response of “It's Sam, not Sammy!”

Dean scrubs his face with his dry hands, feeling a few prickles of stubble on his otherwise smooth face. He runs a hand through his short hair, contemplating whether or not he should put jeans on before going out to meet his brother. He decides to throw on a pair crumpled in the corner, holes worn in the knees. Some oil stains permanently accent the pockets, though he's long forgotten they were there. The calendar on his wall glares at him like he's forgetting something important. He ignores the tug in his gut.

While he's pulling on an old t-shirt, he goes to meet Sam in the kitchen.  
  
“Dad out again?” Dean asks, as he's handed a paper plate piled high with breakfast foods.  
  
“When is he not?” Sam scowls, scraping eggs out onto his own plate. He's not wrong: Dad's out hunting or working more often than he's home. But Dean never really thinks about it, that's just the way it is.  
  
“C'mon, Sammy, eat up. We can worry about Dad after we get you to school,” He forces a smile, ruffling his brother's hair.  
  
“Alright, alright. And it's Sam.”  
  
They both eat in silence, the heater in the corner blasting white noise and far-too-hot air around their house. Once they finish eating, they find themselves sliding into the front seats of their '67 Chevy Impala, Dean's pride and joy. He got it from his dad when he turned sixteen. The car is his baby, as he reminds his brother any time he can.  
  
When they're both situated, Dean flips the radio to Metallica, playing at a low volume. They both know all the words, Dean through passion and Sam through association, singing shamelessly off-key while rambling down the highway. They stop singing for a few minutes in the middle, when Sam reminds Dean to pick him up after book club. Which leads Sam to explain in detail the plot of whatever he had been assigned to read. ( _“He just wanted to be loved, Dean, but Victor didn't understand!”_ ). Dean nods along, asking questions occasionally, but most just letting Sam go off.  
  
Dean has one fist on the top of the steering wheel and the other in his lap, looking more at his brother waving around than at the road. Eventually, Dean turns the radio off, wanting to listen to Sam more than Hetfield. He makes a mental note to look up _Frankenstein_ on SparkNotes later. He remembers teaching Sam how to read at the tender age of four, when Dean himself was eight. Every night, they struggled through the first Harry Potter book aloud, before they both crashed on the couch, or floor, or bed, or wherever they wound up. But they read it, cover to cover. Dean hadn't read a book all the way through since.  
  
Sam waves him a goodbye when they get to the school, a couple of his friends already waiting on the front steps for him. Dropping Sam off at the middle school is the only reason Dean gets up so early in the morning. He doesn't bother much with his own classes, he usually takes a smoke break out by the Seven-Eleven before sauntering into Shop halfway through the lesson. When Sam is too sick to get out of bed, Dean doesn't show up at all. The teachers hardly expect anything more from him.  
  
Dean parks across the street from the high school. The wind nips at his face when he shuts the door behind him. He checks his watch: he's got more than enough time. He watches his breath curl like smoke towards the sun, and spends a moment craving a swig of his dad's Jack Daniel's. He can never do Monday mornings. Something about today makes his chest feel particularly full.  
  
He decides to fuck it at the last minute, he can shock his teacher by showing up on time for once. He strolls in, thumbs hooked into his belt loops, just as the late bell is chiming. The teacher purses her lips and gives him a look, but can't be bothered to say anything. The room is all but empty, a few kids scattered around the tables. His friend and occasional fuck-buddy, Jace, is sitting on her desk next to another girl that Dean doesn't remember the name of. He can't focus long enough to care.

Something's off today, something's _wrong._ Dad didn't come home from his night out drinking. Which happens often enough, but never at the beginning of the week. Dean half-heartedly checks the date, to see if his calendar was right this mor-- Oh. November 2nd. _Fuck._  
The room feels ten degrees too hot.

He nearly knocks his chair over when he stands up, flashes a hall pass at the teacher, and leaves. _How could I have forgotten? This happens every year, no big deal. Fuck._ He thinks, leaning his back against the side of the building. The brick is sharp on his back. He can't get in a good lungful of air-- too much smoke. _Fuckin' pathetic, Winchester._ Not enough smoke. Dean isn't sure how long he stands outside like that, ignoring his shivering for just long enough to finish a couple cigs and not caring if the teacher chews him out for it.

He makes a mental note to give their uncle Bobby a call when he gets the chance. And to stop at the flower shop before the cemetery. _Shit, and Sammy's got book club today, too. Guess he can join me this time._ Sam usually doesn't.

The obnoxious chime of the school bell smashes into his thoughts. He hardly remembers to grab his bag before leaving.  
  
His phone nearly burns a hole in the fabric of his jeans as he makes his way around the building. He wants to cut his next class, English, to give Bobby a ring, but his last test grade, barely a C, advises him against it. He doesn't need to give his dad any more of a reason to be angry. With a sigh, he makes his way.  
  
English is one of the few dual-taught classes Dean has run into during his three years in high school. Ms. Nisbet and Mrs. Leonard are both fresh out of college and have an inane passion for literature. As Dean walks in, the class is already chatty and someone's stuck a cucumber to the front chalkboard. Dean takes the seat two rows behind his friend Jo.  
  
“Alright, everyone." Ms. Nisbet says once everyone settles down. "We're starting a new unit. Who's ever heard of Frankenstein?” A few hands in the room go up. Dean sits up a little straighter: that's the book Sam had been talking about in the car this morning. Now, Dean had seen he old black-and-white flick a few summers back, very creepy-cool. Of course, Sam just had to tell him everything that was wrong with it, spoil-sport.

Mrs. Leonard continues for her partner. “You'll be reading the original novel, and writing a speech on it with a partner.” The room springs up with chatter and everyone turns to face their friends. Dean meets Jo's eyes from over the head of some lanky kid in a trenchcoat. He flashes her a grin and she nods.  
Jo and Dean have been best friends since sixth grade or so, when Dean moved here for the first time. She'd showed him her knife collection and they spent most of a day carving their names into every tree they could find.

“But,” Leonard's voice cuts the chatter, “we'll be assigning your partners.”  
  
 _Ain't that just my luck today._ Dean scowls at nothing in particular. He shoots Jo a mournful look, before glaring at the chalkboard ahead of him. He watches the cucumber slice splat onto the floor. He's sure he'll be stuck with some deadbeat who expects him to do all the work. Ms. Nisbet drops the rubric onto his desk, and he almost audibly groans. Christ, he practically has to write a whole 'nother novel. Hello, C minus. Yet another reason for his dad to come down on his head.  
  
And fuck, he's right back where he started. Did he need to call Bobby now more than ever. He looked around, from the back of Jo's head, to one of the teachers, to a black-haired boy sitting at the front of the class. Everyone else listening attentively to something he knew he should care about. A moment later, though, he feels his phone vibrating on his leg. His heart short-circuits for a moment before he realizes it was only a text, and neither his dad nor Bobby are technologically efficient enough to know how to do that. He steals a glance at his phone, blinking when he sees that he has a new message from Jo.  
  
 _ Everything ok? _ He grimaces, knowing she won't take a lie.  
  
 _ Check the d8._ is all Dean needs to say. Jo knows what it means, what his dad will be up to.  
At the front of the room, Mrs. Leonard is standing on a chair, hitting the overhead projector with a ruler in an attempt to make it start working again.  
  
 _ Want 2 come over for dinner?_  
  
 _ I was abt 2 ask u the same thing._ He hears a chuckle from up ahead of him, though whether it's from his text, or the fact that the projector was now smoking, he isn't sure.  
  
 _ Do we need a horror flick marathon?_  
  
 _ U no it_

When they realize the projector is totally shot, everyone is handed a copy of Frankenstein and told to read until the end of class.  
It takes a few minutes for the smoke to clear, and a few more for everyone to shut up about it. Jesus, does Dean need that movie marathon. Or at least a good fuck. Something to take his mind off of everything. He scans the room again: there's a cute brunette a few seats away that doesn't look away when he looks her up and down. He smiles. She licks her lips.

 

“Ah, fuck, Dean!” The brunette tangles her fingers through his hair as he thrust his hips forward. He bites down on his bottom lip, feeling the familiar clench in his lower stomach; he's close. He digs his nails into her shoulder and his hips arch up of their own accord. He thrusts back again, and she lets out a whine, forcing their lips together messily. Her hands is between her legs, rubbing herself jerkily, muttering his name into his shoulder. He comes hard with a shudder through his spine, and she follows soon after.  
  
He presses his forehead against hers, pulling out and panting into the thick air. They don't stay like that for long: the girl shimmies out from under him and collects her panties from under the seat. When she opens the door, Dean hardly feels the blast of cold. He fumbles with his zipper, maybe muttering something about doing that again, but by the time he gets himself together, she's already gone. He stands up shakily outside the car, with only a small twinge of annoyance. No big loss, he's not even sure he can remember the girl's name.

The bell chimes again, and Dean heads off to lunch.

He swaggers into the lunch room and the familiar aroma of shitty food and teenagers greets him. He spots Jo at their usual table in the corner, listening half-heartedly to one of Ash's alien abduction theories. Ash is a year older than them, and has been sporting a mullet since seventh grade. Today, he's tied the 'party' part into a short braid. When Dean slides up, Ash is busy telling Jo that the pyramids were built by aliens. "No, seriously."  
  
"Ash," Dean cuts in, "dude, I know you're well researched in the art of bullshit and conspiracy theories. But I was telling Jo earlier that we should have a movie night."

“Uh, dude, you know it's a Monday, right?” Ask asks, quirking his eyebrow expertly. "Don't we usually do that kinda thing on Friday?" Jo gives him a look, so he shrugs it off. "Fine, whatever, backwards-ass kids these days. But Jo still has my copy of Dracula."

“Hey, don't look at me! I gave it to Dean for his birthday!” Jo defends. Ash just shakes his head, disappointed. Dean thinks he hears the guy mutter 'typical'. Which, really, it shouldn't be a surprise any more. Every movie or video game that got handed to one of them was passed through all of them at least twice. Dean remembers his birthday, and wondering why the DVD case looked so used.  
  
Dean is laughing when he feels his phone ringing against his leg. Shit. The rest of his laugh dies quickly. His blood runs cold, checking the caller and mouthing the word 'Bobby' at Jo before hurrying out to the boy's bathroom around the corner. He checks the stalls, thankfully all empty, before answering.

“Hey Bobby,” He says with well-practiced ease. His heart slams against his ribs, feeling his stomach churn with bile. He's surprised Bobby can't hear it through the crackle of the phone line.  
  
“Hey kid,” They both know this conversation by heart. “Your dad's fine. Passed out on my couch near three.”  
  
“Okay,” His voice wavers, "Good.” The pause that follows is thick.  
  
“He'll be fine.” Dean really doesn't want to get into it now. Neither of them do.  
  
“I know." Dean hears footsteps outside. "Hey, Bobby, I got to go.” He doesn't wait for his uncle to reply, just clicks the phone shut. Sometimes inside him uncoils. He swallows, his throat still tight, and sends a quick text to Sammy.  
  
On his way back to Jo and Ash, he feels his like his step is a tiny bit lighter. Not enough, but enough. Ash is back on his 'Aliens and Pyramids' diatribe, to which Dean happily joins in on.  
  
The rest of the school day is a blur. Not that any of his classes were horribly academic, anyway. And he's stuck staying after until it's time to pick up Sammy. Jo and Ash left half an hour before, so Dean hauls himself into the library, using the computer to play Tetris. There's only a handful of people around, including a crotchety old librarian and a dark-haired boy in a trenchcoat whom he recognizes from his English class. What's his name? Calvin? Cranston? It's something strange. He tries not to think about it too hard. Fortunately, Dean doesn't have to, since gets a text from Sammy a few minutes later.  
  
Sammy is sitting on the front steps of the school entrance when Dean pulls up. Dean doesn't even try, just hands Sam the bouquet: roses, and something Susan or another. Mary always liked yellow flowers.  
  
“How was book club?” Dean tries to make some small talk, but they both know it won't happen.  
  
“It was good. Everyone loves Frankenstein,” He tries to keep his tone bright, but his eyes lack the normal glitter of excitement. Maybe it's the flowers laying in his lap. Or how tight Dean's grip on the steering wheel is. “Dean...”  
  
“I'm fine, Sammy,” Dean snaps, sliding his hands against the wheel, feeling the worn leather ignite his senses. The car, not unlike the air outside it, is frigid. Sam dials up on the heat, and they both smile at the familiar rattling in the heater; when Dean was little, he wound up shoving some Legos up the front, and they never managed to get them out.  
  
The ride to the cemetery is short, and the growing silence would be unbearably painful if it were anyone but the Winchester boys in the front seats.  
  
The familiar curl of the iron gate greets them, silhouetted with the orange glare of the setting sun. Out of habit, Dean begins to hum Metallica, to try and stop feeling like his ribs are made of charcoal. He never likes coming here, but he's always felt like he has to. Like healing and reopening an old wound at the same time. He tried to explain it to Sam once, and Sammy did the best he can, but he couldn't really get what Dean wanted to say. It's Sam, though, the kid understood him anyway. That's fine.

The cemetery gate swings open and every other thought is banished from his head.  
  
Parking is a non-issue: no one comes ever comes on a Monday. The wind stings their bare skin when they step out of the car. Sam pulls his jacket tighter around himself. Dean grabs the flowers from the front seat, cursing when the thorns stab at his fingertips.  
  
Usually, Dean spends a few minutes walking around all the shaky plots of land, considering headstones or family graves. But with Sam beside him and the distinct chill in the air, he doesn't bother. The plot they head to is one of the least worn; Mary didn't have a whole lot of family when she was alive, anyway. Her headstone is still smooth.

 _Mary Campbell-Winchester_  
 _loving Wife and Mother_  
 _December 5, 19-- to November 2, 20--_  
  
Dean sets the flowers down on the cold, grassless earth. Sam stands off behind him, not saying a word. So Dean talks.

"Hey, Mom. It's good to be back here, you know?" He snorts, "Fucking cold, but when isn't it, I mean seriously?" He chuckles to himself. "But I'm here anyway. And man, what a year. Sammy and I found a lost dog a few month ago, spent all afternoon cleaning it up. Ol' Sammy was fuckin' crushed when the owners came by to pick him up. Right, Sammy?" He imagines his fair-haired mother throwing her head back and laughing.

"Shut it." Sam warns. Dean ignores him.

"John's--" an alcoholic, falling apart, wasting away, killing himself constantly. "John's good, real good. He misses you. We all do.Except Sammy, he's too busy raving about _Jess_."

"I said shut up, Dean!"

Dean turns back to his brother, who's glaring at him with cheeks pink not only from the cold.

"No, I'm good, thanks though." Dean chuckles again. "But things have been... Well, things have been."

And Dean doesn't say much else. He never does, he never needs to. Mary knows.

 

Their neighborhood, which is little more than a few sidewalks connecting a handful of mobile homes, is devoid of all company by the time they get back. The stray tabby cat that sometimes saunters around their lot is sitting on their porch when Dean rolls up. The temperature's dropped at least ten degrees since they got in the car, so when Dean opens the front door and the cat tries to push its way in through his legs, he doesn't object. He sneezes a couple of times, but he doesn't object. He's almost glad the heater's so shot.

He tosses his backpack down on the couch and hits the lights. Sam files in behind him, setting his bags down on the table. He goes over to the cabinet and digs a can of tuna from the back, sniffing it before setting it on the floor. The cat chows on it and gives Sam a thankful mew. Dean sneezes again.

“You know, Dad would have a fit if we tried to keep it.” Dean reminds him, sniffling. Sam glares, but keeps on petting the fuzzy beast. Its contented purring seems to highlight the emptiness that springs up through the rest of the house. Sam notices it, too, bringing his lips tighter.

“Well hey,” Dean interjects, flipping his phone out of his pocket, “Ash and Jo are coming over tonight, so we won't be totally alone.” Sam perks up. Dean squats down next to him, flinching when the cat rubs its face against his knee. “And you know, if you're good I may just let you stay with us.” They both smile, “But, y'know, not next to Jo or anything. Don't want to make Jess jealous.” Sam turns away, trying to hide the blush creeping up his cheeks.

“You're a jerk!” Sammy tries not to smile. He fails.

“Yeah, well that makes you a bitch.”

Dean hears his phone buzz. The cat, who Sam discovers is male, mews when Dean stands up.

 _ We still on? _ and _ Be over in ten_ wait in his inbox for him. He replies to both quickly.

“Alright, Sammy, let's get ready.” He pulls his reluctant brother up by the arms.

They spend a while arguing over whether they can keep the cat for the night or not. Sam decides to call it Gabriel, and makes it a bed out of an old sweater, so that settles that. Dean's friends arrive, Jo by walking in the front door and Ash by trying to shove a pizza box through the mail slot. The four of them and the cat strew themselves across the couch. Sam curls up between Dean and Jo's head, the latter laying across Ash's lap. The TV screen blurs for a minute before one of them decides to get up and bang at it a couple times. The pizzas are stacked on top of one another, balancing dangerously on the rickety coffee table.

They're hardly through the first movie before the pizza's all been devoured. Gabriel sits himself in one of the empty boxes before clambering over to curl up on Sam's lap. Dean squirms out of the way to go and get a drink, chuckling to himself when the cat rubs its face up on Sam's chin. The idea of holding onto the cat for more than one night niggles its way into Dean's head. But their dad is going to be home tomorrow, so he quickly banishes the thought. He digs around in the fridge for a couple minutes before a bottle of beer jumps out at him. He pops the top off with practiced ease, taking a swig before going back over to the couch.

When he plops back down, Jo grabs the bottle from him and takes a drink herself, before passing it off to Ash. Sam shoots his brother a disapproving look, and Dean shrugs out an apology. A couple more swallows from the bottle erases his apology completely.

The credits of the movie roll a while later, and coupled with several more empty beer bottles that lay across the floor. The three older teens are giggling to themselves over something they don't know why is funny, while Sam busies himself with sorting out a bed for the cat. Gabriel curls himself up in the torn-up sweater that Sam lay down for him, purring. In his haze, Dean thinks maybe he could get used to the bugger.

Ash leans over the arm of the couch to grab a forgotten slice of pizza, and nearly falls over. Dean puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“Alright, I think it's time for you all to head out,” he says, looking over to his brother. Sam nods in agreement.

“Wait,” Sam turns to the friends and Ash struggles to get his shoes on. “Didn't you drive here?” Jo shakes her head.

“Naw, we got off shift early so we walked over,” she explains. Sam nods. They say their goodbyes and then the brothers are left alone. There's a pause, then Gabriel meows from his cat bed. Dean rubs his eyes that are just beginning to sting.

“Well, we might as well get to cleaning this shit up,” He shrugs, ruffling his brother's hair.

"This was your idea, you're on your own."

"Fuck you." Dean rolls his eyes and gets to work.


	2. Bumblebees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED 30.5.2014  
> Each chapter will switch points of view, usually between Dean and Cas. Sam has interludes.

Castiel Novak can't sleep. He hasn't in weeks, not for more than a couple hours a night. But it's been years since he even tried. The world outside his bedroom window is quiet. The silence echoes through all the empty rooms in his house. He inhales slowly, as if disturbing the silence would hurt. He breathes with military precision, not hard enough to force out a cough.

Tonight, he is leaning over paper on his desk, twirling an electric blue pen between his fingers. He pulls phrases out of the air, and ideas from the burrow in his chest. The click of his pen echoes. _'between the synapses and marrow-'_ no, that doesn't sound right. Not marrow, marrow doesn't connect to anything, it helps to support the bone. What holds things together? Joints. Yes. Ligaments, too. Synapses and joints. Synapses and ligaments. He tastes the words on his tongue, the first pair slight salty and bitter, the second resting comfortably inside his lips. What an inconvenient thing, words. They always sound better when spoken aloud.

He he gives in to them, swiping his tongue along his lips before his voice carries them out; "between the synapses and ligaments is where the facts lie." His voice is rough and small, getting swallowed up by the silence soon after. The memory rings an echo in his ears.

He pauses, glancing at the clock and shutting his eyes. It's nearly three in the morning. Even with his eyes resting closed, and he can feel the moonlight drifting into his room lazily, as though it knows how readily it will be welcomed and takes its time arriving. Castiel decides to greet it properly, opening his eyes to flick off his desk lamp. He turns towards the window, squinting through the new-found darkness.

The two large windows in his room are tilted, facing up to the stars. They latch in the middle, although it's been years since they've been locked. The glow of the moon is warm through the glass, despite the chill of the air outside. Castiel strips off his shirt and folds it neatly on the bed. Slowly, like in a trance, he steps forward to bathe himself in the pale light. His skin is hot, as it would have been if he'd just awoke from under blankets. The light gleams on his pale skin, and he feels like he shines along with it. The shadows that cascade around him are a comfort: a simple proof that he is, in fact, there at all.

As gently as he can, so as not to disturb the silence further, he drops to his knees. The floorboards are well worn; he runs his finger along the once-shined-up wood, already having memorized all the scrapes and scratches along the floor. He stops as he feels the indent he's looking for. _Castiel was here._ He uncaps his pen and goes over it once more.

A simple ritual, one he follows every night, before his prayer and before spending the rest of the night with his nose in a book. But it's a comfort to him, it makes his chest unknot the fraction it needs to for him to heave out a single, hot sigh. He hoists himself off the ground, hearing the floor creak under him. He keeps his shirt off when he clambers over to his bed. His rosary is cool when he slides it down over his head.

While Castiel appreciates the repose the silence gives him, he never feels right keeping his prayers silent. His mother once told him that prayers should be spoken so they have time to resonate. He always thought prayer felt more like spilling paint onto a canvas: leading it where it's meant to go. His first prayer tonight is the Our Father, a familiar hum against his lips. His own prayer follows.

"Oh Lord, greetings. Good evening, I feel I should say, although it is hardly evening any more. I will begin this message the same way I begin all things, with thanks. I would like to thank You for my loving mother, this house, these books, and for... For this day, that I may cherish it and use it to help do Your will. The day is a gift, as I have long-since come to realize, and I should treat it as such." Castiel tilts his head up without opening his eyes. He doesn't need to, nothing in the room moves without him. There is no breeze on the other side of the window, as is common for this time of year. Silence. All at once, Castiel feels as if his words have been stolen from him. "A-amen." He ends his prayer clumsily. Castiel feels he should say more, but he knows he can't. But it's no matter, the Lord will understand everything he doesn't say. Can't say.

When he opens his eyes, everything looks as if it's been covered in a sheet of blue fog. He clicks his desk lamp on, the room explodes in a pulse of fluorescent yellow. He squints again, turning away. There is a collection of books resting on the wall opposite his desk. It's significantly smaller than the other shelves of books, these are his favorites. On the top of the pile rests the Bible, the binding having been taped together more times than he can count, along with a copy of _Inkheart_ , and other novels. He picks up a book of short stories, one he knows he can get through before he has to get up in the morning.

He spends the next few hours completely enthralled in a world that never existed. He listens as hungry lions growl inside of a Veldt; he weighs the silence on his shoulders when a spaceship explodes and everyone is left to drift in the vast, empty space; he watches as a man's tattoos tell stories along his skin, stories that move and change every time someone knew looks on them. Cas stops reading only when he rolls over to turn his alarm off before it rips through the morning. He uncurls like a cat and gropes along the wall for a minute before finding the light switch. The ceiling fan high above him whirs around, spluttering to life. Over by the windows, early morning light creeps up to the horizon, barely speckling the skyline with color. Fog dusting the rooftops begins to roll out and expand. Castiel can nearly feel the moisture condense in his throat, scraping him raw from the inside. He swallows thickly, followed by a hacking cough. He flies to the windowsill, gripping it knuckle-white to keep him from losing himself.

After spitting out all that's gummed up the inside of his mouth, he goes back to his restricted breathing from earlier. When he regains control, he pulls out a fresh pair of jeans and a shirt from the wardrobe in the corner. He grabs his tan trenchcoat as well, running his fingers over the well-known creases. There's a stitch in the elbow that gets sewn up every couple months, and three words written in Sharpie along the neckline. It had been nearly three years since he walked away from the register. He felt at home immediately when the coat slid over his shoulders. 

Grabbing his pen from off the desk, he makes his way to the other side of the room.

The trap-door entrance to his room opens with a creak. The ladder tumbles out and just barely scrapes the floor below. Castiel disregards it entirely and lands with a thud that rattles the floor. The kitchen is two floors below. He stops in the bathroom on the second floor to pop a couple of his pills and take a long swallow of water. Down in the kitchen, there's a loaf of bread left out on the counter and the milk jug is nearly empty. Castiel runs his fingertips along the marble countertop, picking up an apple from a fruit basket and biting into it.

He chews the fruit thoughtfully, glad that on most days, hamburgers are an acceptable breakfast food. But they ran out of hamburger meat a few days ago, so he has to settle for something lighter. He takes another bite of his apple and heads out the back door. There's a garden that spreads around his backyard, complete with a stone path that winds around all the fauna. Early morning light streams through the tops of the trees, trees that curve to make a tunnel over Castiel. Ivy vines creep up the walls that run around the outer edges of the yard, a few hugging themselves against the trunks of the trees. Bushes and flowers spread out among the rest of the yard, the only space between them being the stone pathway. In the middle, underneath an archway sits a fountain with an angel poised on top. Even through the chill of the fall morning, the yard is still warm. Castiel strolls through, keeping one hand behind his back as the other clasps his apple. When he was younger, he always imagined this as a small patch of the Garden of Eden, and he himself an angel strolling through.

When he finishes his apple, he tosses it to the ground where some animal will pick it up sooner or later. He takes a seat on the edge of the fountain, listening to the water trickling down. The water sloshes around when he picks a few browning leaves out. Shaking his hand off, the cold a comfortable shock against his hot skin, he watches the scene around him: there are a couple of seasonally-confused bees buzzing around some blooming daphnes. A particularly fuzzy bee lands on a flower and waddles around it. Her back end is dusted with fine specks of pollen, which makes Castiel wonder how many other flowers she's found this morning, even through the cold.

Does she know she has such a short time to live? Or is she simply following her instincts, because she knows no better? How many flowers will she see by the time she leaves? He wants to know how dazzling the flowers are to her in the muted November light. Does she spot them from far away because they're so bright? Or is she being a good soldier, just following orders? Trying to survive another day, another hour, to keep her kind alive? He wonders if she even knows she exists at all.

She flies away, leaving a few other bees behind her, still as eager as ever to collect their prize. He watches them float around for a few seconds, before tilting his head up to the sky; The clouds above him are close enough that he could reach up and touch them if he wanted, but in the same moment they're entirely too far away. Even the trees hanging over him seem too tall. He remembers when he could stand up straight and the leaves would barely brush his cheek.

He keeps leaning back, trying to find a break between the trees and the sky, before he nearly topples backwards into the fountain. He freezes, gripping the cold stone as tight as he gripped the windowsill. _You need to be more careful, Castiel_ he tells himself. Back in the kitchen once he's collected himself, Castiel takes a long drink of water. He grabs his backpack and leaves the door unlocked. He walks to school feeling like a bumblebee: trying to survive while being very, very small.

The school building is still fairly empty when Castiel arrives. He makes his way around the back to find a tree to sit under. The back entrance to the band room is in full view of both the football field and the Shop building, where his first class is. His shoulder bag lands softly on the frosty grass, the front cover of _Frankenstein_ staring at him when he opens the bag. Cracking open the worn cover, he takes his pen out and clicks it three times before writing his name on the title page. He runs his thumb down the flimsy page. It crinkles under his touch. Across the field, a small gaggle of kids are making their way over to the shop building. _It's nearly time for class, then._ Standing to stretch makes Castiel's chest feel heavy, but he shrugs it off and slips his book into his jacket pocket.

The Shop room door shuts with a heavy clang, making Castiel wince. As soon as he's in his seat, his book is back in his hand. He glances up only when a few stray students file into the room. Hardly anyone bothers to show up on time, not that the teacher would be bothered either way. But this morning, someone catches Castiel's eye. Leaning back in his chair with his feet resting up on the table, a student in a brown leather jacket is waiting patiently for everyone else to arrive.

Castiel dog-ears his page and studies the boy: they're in the same grade, Castiel has seen him around before. The boy's hands are behind his head, and his eyes are closed. Everything about him positively screams of arrogance, from his posture to the half-cocked smile resting on his lips. Something about the boy churn's Castiel's stomach. He tries not to let his watchful eye devolve into a glare. They stay like this for a long stretch of time, Castiel watching the boy, with only one of them aware of what's evening happening.

Castiel takes a glance down at the book he's still holding, and thinks how the boy reminds him of Victor Frankenstein. With what little he currently knows abut both: they are as pretentious as ever, especially having been graced with a good life. Little concern for anyone else. Everything good has simply been given to him. But Castiel stops. He sighs, chastising himself: jumping to conclusions of character is a bad habit of his, especially since he takes time observing the people around him, gathering vague ideas of who they are.

“Dean, get your feet off the table, come on,” The teacher barks at the student. That's his name-- Dean. Castiel hadn't known. Dean, rolls his eyes and swings his legs down. He catches Castiel's gaze for a moment. Castiel can feel his blood sting in his veins. Something about him rubs Castiel the wrong way. Not that it really matters to him; by this time tomorrow they would be erased entirely to each other and would move on with their lives.

At this point, enough students have rolled in that the teacher begins handing out rubrics for the project they have to work on. Castiel is nearly finished with his miniature bridge, he only needs to make sure it can hold weight.

The testing of his bridge only takes a minute or two. As he returns to his seat, he decides to get a kick start on effectively wasting time.

A pen sticks out from between his two pointer fingers. Most of the ink has been used up, leaving the plastic cartridge inside. He watches intently as he twirls it between his fingers. The clear plastic warps the view when he tries to look through it. He squints, then stops; getting a headache is not on his list of things to be done today.

The air in the classroom is warm. Castiel is pretty sure the heater broke. If only he were better with his hands, he would offer to fix it himself. _But,_ he reminds himself, _this is Shop. Surely there are more competent people to help out._ The heat makes him shift uncomfortably; it's growing close to the point where he'll have to take his coat off. Inside, he cringes. 

Instead, he straightens up his back and steadies his breathing. He focuses entirely on the air going around in and out of his lungs, trying to wipe out all thought of how uncomfortable he is. The pen in his hand twirls around his fingers with practiced ease. He takes a sheet of looseleaf out of his backpack, scribbling at the top to get his pen to work.

Ideas run around in his head, some of them more concrete than others. He runs his pen in circles, hoping that the motion will pull the thoughts out of his head and onto the paper. His teeth grind against one another; _I have the ending in mind, why is the beginning so difficult?_ But nothing feels right, so he's stuck glaring at the blank blue lines. _Why can't I just skip to the last page? Forget all of the jargon and get to the moral of the story?_ He sighs.

He taps his pen against his chin in a rhythm, like the steady pulse through his veins. Eventually, the pen lands itself between his lips and he bites the end to keep it from falling. Without thinking, he sucks lightly on the end of the pen and inhales, expecting his mouth to fill with smoke. Instead of the nicotine tang, he's greeted with cheap plastic and a violent cough.

His lungs are painfully empty and full at the same moment. The pen drops to the tile floor with a plastic _thwack_. Castiel stops himself from clenching his fist. Thankfully, the cough only lasts just as long. Castiel breathes in: sawdust and apathy. Holds it for one, two, three seconds before breathing out. It feels nothing like relief. He takes a long sweep around the room with his eyes: no one seems the least bit disturbed. He feels as if something in his chest desperately wants to shake loose. With a frustrated sigh, he folds the sheet of looseleaf in half and drops it in the recycling.

He isn't sure if the rest of the class goes by fast or slow. He twirls the pen between his fingers, the way he's seen drummers with their drumsticks do, careful not to bring it to his lips again. As the bell is ringing, the teacher gives him a worried look. _I hope the rest of the day goes better than this._ He thinks to himself on the way out of the class. 

Entering his English class is as close to relief as he knows he's going to come for the day. The rooms smells like new books and smoke. Castiel notices the projector sitting in the corner, waiting for a handyman to come fix it. The boy from his last class, Dean, is eyeing the mechanism with apparent interest, before pulling out his phone and typing something. His presence takes Castiel by surprise.

Instead of the projector, in the front of the room is a green chalkboard with a list of two names in each row. Project partners, evidently. Castiel finds his name near the bottom: Castiel Novak and... Dean Winchester.

Dean seems to see the board at the same instant Castiel does. They make eye contact, shuffling closer together. Dean gives Castiel a once-over, and Castiel does his best not to stare. They drop their book-bags down at the closest pair of desks, keeping a good two feet between each other. It's the first time Castiel has to study the boy up close, so he takes a moment to look at him: his leather jacket is more worn up close, although Castiel is in no position to judge him for his fashion choices. It looks as if Dean has a perpetual sneer set in his face. A chill runs down Castiel when Dean looks up at him.

“Can you not?” Dean snaps. Castiel tilts his head to the side, reigning in a second shiver.

“Not do what?”

“You're starin' at me.”

“Oh.” Castiel looks away, “I'm sorry.” Dean opens his mouth as if to say something else. At that moment, Mrs. Leonard steps up to the front of the room and tells them they have the whole period to work. Loud chatter springs up from every corner of the room. Castiel takes the chance to change the subject. “Can we meet in the library after school?” he asks.

“The one down on Toomey? Or the school one?"

"Toomey."

"Uh, yeah, sure.”

"Good. I will see you there."

Castiel affirms. Dean shrugs.

They don't say another word all class. 


	3. Tap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED 3 JUNE 2014  
> Warnings: smoking, nightmares, alcoholism

The library is quiet, but not in an eerie way; more that the silence is a constant the building would feel strange without. Dean feels the weight of the silence through the glass door. He sighs, taking a long drag on his cigarette, loving the lightheadedness the smoke gives him. No one else is around, so he takes a couple more lazy puffs. The jittering under his skin cools after the second one, but he finishes the rest of the cig anyway. He stubs the butt out into the ashtray, spits into a nearby bush, and goes inside.

The smell of burning lingers in his nose, bringing him back to the bacon and eggs he made earlier this morning. He hadn't made breakfast in months, but with Sam out of commission until they were about to leave, it had been up to Dean. They didn't turn out too terrible, he thought. Dean could scrape most of the burnt bits off.

He stops thinking about it, and gives the younger librarian at the front desk a quick nod and a smile, trying to bring himself back to the here-and-now. He spots his partner sitting at one of the library's round tables, papers spread all around him. Dean reaches all around his mind for the boy's name: _Casey, Caspar... Something starting with 'Cas'. Cassiel?_ Castiel. _That's it. _He gives Castiel a nod, pulling out the chair across from him. Dean starts tapping his foot on the ground as soon as he sits. The Impala's keys jingle in his pocket. Otherwise, the library is all but silent.__

“Sorry I'm late,” Dean lies. Castiel makes eye contact and sets down his book.

“It's fine,” Castiel replies, his voice gravelly. To Dean, it sounds like the guy has no emotions. “As long as you're willing to work diligently now that you're here.” _The hell, who talks like that?_ Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"Sure," he shrugs, and digs out his copy of Frankenstein. The front cover is bent back from him tossing it carelessly into his backpack. He tries half-heartedly to smooth it out before cracking it open.

“So, uh, what are you working on?” Dean asks, glancing at all the papers on the table. It reminds him of Sam studying. He looks up: Cas' eyes are glued to him, once again. God, does that give him the creeps.

“I decided to get a head start on research for our project.” Research on what, he doesn't say. Dean doesn't bother to ask. With a huff, Dean flips to the first page. His eyes don't stay on it for long. Instead, he looks around and quietly checks out the much-more-interesting librarian walking by. He smirks, before realizing _fuck_ Castiel is staring at him again. Dean does rolls his eyes this time, and grinds his teeth. It's not Castiel that's bugging him, he knows that much. The lingering smell of smoke comes back to him. He shivers. _Fuck, no, we're not doing this right now._ He decides, so he plunges down into the book.

Dean finds himself in Geneva alongside Victor Frankenstein, meeting his comrade Henry, who has a passion for the heros and villains from the books he reads. It reminds Dean of Sammy. His chest pangs. He looks up at the clock behind him, grinding his teeth again. Half an hour until he can pick up the kid. Dean didn't notice he had stopped tapping his foot until he starts again.

He tries to get his attention back on the book, which lasts all of thirty seconds before he checks his phone, or the clock, or the cute librarian. Once, his glance skirts over Castiel, who's also looking up at him from his book. Their eye contact holds for much longer than necessary. Dean sets his jaw, forces himself to look away. The jingling of his keys gets louder. 

"I hope," Castiel says, "That you'll be able to work on this project with me." _Okay, seriously, who does this guy think he is?_

“'Course I will,” Dean scoffs. The boy continues to stare at him. It makes Dean wonder if he wants to say something else. But, whatever. He checks the clock again, “But, I've gotta be out of here in like, ten minutes.” Castiel's gaze hardens to what Dean thinks is a glare.

“Why?”

“I've got shit to take care of.” Castiel just stares. "Gotta deal with my kid brother." Dean offers. Castiel doesn't press further, although Dean can tell he wants to. Dean doesn't know why he mentioned Sam in the first place. _Fuck it._ he thinks, standing up. He throws his book back into his bag, muttering something about them meeting up tomorrow. And then he's gone.

 

The whole ride down the highway, Dean's mind cycles between Sammy and trying-not-to-think-about-Sammy. Guns N' Roses is turned up as high as the old radio will let it. Twice, Dean nearly runs a red light. It isn't until he turns onto Main Street that he realizes he's going fifteen over his usual speed. To his surprise, Sam is already waiting on the front steps when he gets to the school ten minutes early. Dean turns down the music a few notches as Sam slides into his seat.

"Hey, kiddo," Dean says, forcing a smile. Sam just glares at the glove compartment. Dean's heart feels too tight in his chest. He doesn't let off the gas pedal.

"You smell gross," is the first thing out of Sam's mouth. "You said you were going to quit."

"Yeah, I did," Dean huffs, "But--" he stops. He doesn't have any excuse, much less a good one. "Just drop it, Sammy."

"For the last time, it's Sam." There's more heat in his voice than Dean expects. He lets off the gas enough to pull over.

"Alright." Dean kills the engine. "You want to tell me what the hell is up with you today?"

Silence.

"No, I mean it, Sam. What the hell? You were just fine last night, then I get up this morning and you're-- You're--" he's grasping at thin air, he knows. Dean sighs, taking his hands off the wheel and putting one on Sam's shoulder. He tries again. "Sammy, c'mon." He doesn't know what he's asking exactly, but anything is better than this.

Sam's face goes soft, and Dean thinks he hears a sniff. Still not a word out of him, though. Dean rubs his thumb along an inch of Sam's collarbone. An idea strikes.

“You know, when you were little,” Dean starts, immediately feeling his brother relax under his hand. "Sometimes we would all go out for a drive, when Dad got home from work. he would be in the front seat, and the rest of us would be in the back, Mom included. She said she wanted to be as close to us as possible. Most of the time, she had to carry you 'cause you hated being strapped in that baby carrier. Whenever you got fussy, she'd hand you over to me, and you'd fall right asleep every time.

"This one time, it was like, mid-October, and it was snowing for all it was worth outside. Dad was griping about it for ages, 'cause we got caught in a load of traffic. You were crying and crying over, I don't know, baby things, and we couldn't get you to shut up. I think Dad was ready to throw you out the window, until he had the bright idea of singing Christmas songs. I don't know why, it was October, but it was the last thing we could think of. So Mom and me joined in and then you wouldn't stop giggling. We got you to sleep with Jingle Bell Rock, man. It was great."

The story doesn't have much of a point, but it's enough. Sam relaxes back against Dean's hand. Dean can almost hear the tinkling sound of Mary's laughter from the back seat. This silence is much warmer.

"It was..." Sam falters, "It was stupid, honestly. A nightmare, a freakin' nightmare. But I wouldn't wake up. We were in this little town. Dad took us there once, the place with that lame mystery shack? We were walking down the street, and you... There was a car, came out of nowhere." Sam inhales sharply. "It happened so many times. It was a car, or a safe dropped on you, or you got shot, or-- I couldn't wake up.

"And then, when I did wake up, hell. It didn't feel real. You didn't feel real. I had now way of knowing you weren't just going to disappear on me again." Dean didn't realize his grip on Sam's shoulder had gone white; Sam hadn't said a thing, if he had noticed.

"Sammy." Is all Dean can think to say. His little brother nods slowly, at nothing in particular.

"Let's get home."

Their house is surprisingly well-lit when they pull up to the side. Gabriel stalking off from their back porch like he's been kicked out. The knot in Dean's stomach is back, for a totally different reason. And sure enough, when Dean swings the front door open, their dad is there. John is lying on the couch, his fingers pressed firmly against his temples. Sam flicks the lights on.

"Sir," Dean greets his dad with a smile, even though he knows John can't see. Dean's posture corrects itself so he's nearly standing at attention, when John opens his mouth to speak.

"Dean, get me some ibuprofen."

Dean hurries to the cabinet, hearing Sam clamber in to the kitchen behind him. He knows Sam is watching him dig through the pantry for Saltines.

"Hurry it up." John snaps. "And turn off the damn lights." Dean nearly sprints to the wall to shut the lights off.

John reaches out blindly when Dean comes over, rubbing his eyes. He swallows the pills greedily, finishing them off with a gulp of water Dean hands him. Dean is racking his brains staring at his dad. _Oh!_ Dean remembers. There's a pair of gas-station sunglasses somewhere in his room. Dean rushes to his bedroom, kicking clothes up off the floor. A pair of tacky, neon green sunglasses flies up with them. He doesn't catch them.

Sam's voice carries through from the kitchen. He's growing loud, followed by Dad's voice, even louder.

“You can't keep having Dean do all this crap for you!” Dean hears. He walks out of the room to find Sam standing in front of the coffee table with arms gripped over his chest. John is sitting up on the couch with an expression that makes Dean shudder while standing completely still. “I mean, seriously!” Sam goes on, “You come home drunk off your ass and order Dean and me around like soldiers!”

"You're my sons," John defends, "And I've never heard Dean complain." Dean knows John is trying to keep his voice down. But the way Sam's chest is starting to heave tells Dean that this is going to end quickly.

“Maybe because you've conditioned us not to whine about anything, while you're fucking around feeling sorry for yourself!”

John rises quicker than he should have. John and Sam glare daggers into each other from across the room.

“Hey, hey,” Dean puts his hands up. _Gotta keep them from really going at each other._ "Alright, Sam. Go to your room." 

“Dean-- but--”

“No buts. Go.” Dean crosses his arms. Dejected, Sam scoffs at him. The door slams. “And dad. _Dad._ Sit your ass down.” He does. “And put these on.” Dean tosses the sunglasses to him, which he almost catches. Dean eyes him carefully as he puts them on. John lies back down once they're comfortably adjusted on his face. “Now just--” Dean sighs, “Just try to sleep it off, alright?” He doesn't catch John's reply.

Sam's room is always ten times cleaner than Dean's, with books stacked neatly in the corners, and everything on his desk set up in rows. Sam himself is sitting cross-legged on his bed, a library book splayed out on his lap. His hands are shaking. He dog-ears his page and closes it when Dean strides in. Dean leans on the wall, running his fingers through his hair. Not for the first time, he doesn't know what to say.

"Sam," He figures that's as good a place to start as any. "What do you say we head to the Roadhouse? Or Bobby's?" Jo's mom, Ellen, owns the Roadhouse Bar and Grill a few miles down the road that they frequent when their dad is out. "We can give dad time to cool off." Sam nods, more to the book in his lap than to Dean. He'll take it. "Cool. Alright, get a bag. I'll give Bobby a call."

Bobby is anything but surprised when Dean calls. They make it to his place in record time. Sam goes off to scour Bobby's library for new lore, while Dean hangs back to chat with the man.

"I'll be honest," Bobby says, handing Dean a beer. "I expected you two here a lot sooner." Dean tsks.

"I had an English project."

"And you're actually doing it?" Bobby's bewildered.

"I figure I should. The kid I'm working with is weird, though." Dean takes a hearty swig.

"Weird how?"

"Well," Dean thinks for a second, "His name's Castiel,--" Bobby raises an eyebrow-- "and he kinda stares a lot, you know? Seems really arrogant, too. He's just weird."

"Adra's kid?" Bobby asks. Dean shrugs. "He's got dark hair? Talks real formal?"

"Oh yeah."

"Yeah, that's Adra's kid. I used to go to church with them. You should give him a chance, he ain't all that bad." Bobby says. Dean shrugs again. He doubts it, but he doesn't tell Bobby that.

"You know anything else about him?" Dean asks. Bobby thinks for a minute. Hesitates.

"Nah, nothin' important."

Dean tries to ignore the twinge of disappointment.


	4. Catacombs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED 2 JULY 2014  
> Warnings: insomnia, illness/coughing fits, brief discussion of death

It's a Thursday when something changes. It's hardly Thursday yet, only a few minutes past midnight. But the change doesn't come until later. Right now, the cool air from the open window is fluttering across Castiel's skin, sending shivers through his whole body. _It is a perfect night to get inspired,_ he thinks. He sighs, tapping his pen against his chin. Words come to him in his next shiver, and he gets to work.

A long moment of tongue-biting and pen tapping leave him almost satisfied. The paper in front of him is covered in smears. He reads it over, crossing out a line in the middle, moving a couple of stanzas around. When he finishes, he stops and looks over to the window, where a harsh gush of wind is rattling the glass. Heavy clouds outside coat the sky in a blanket of white and grey. Castiel wants to wrap himself up in them. He drops his gaze back down to what he's written:

 

 _ these are your catacombs_  
 _these are your indulgences:_  
 

_ yourself  ,  
after your head hits the pillow   _

__before the fog of sleep  
and the hazy brick of dreams ,  these are your wants,  
your wishes,  

_ and  your fears . _

_ your barriers are set  
  by the pale light of the day   _

_ but they break _  
_ under the florescent bulb of  _  
_  night. _  
_ this is your heart, _  
_ the one you hide away and lock up tight   _

_ these are the things you wont admit,  
 _the things that don't matter to anyone_ _

_ but yourself   _

_ these are your catacombs _  
_ dusty and dim  
made of long hallways_  
with rooms full of ideas  
the ones you shed light on  
when it's you  
and you alone

His writing is neat, written in all capital letters and a neat calligraphy, the same way it's been since he was young. As he's setting his pen down, he hears an unexpected knock at his door. He tells them to come in. The trap door latch is unhooked and the ladder tumbles down to the floor below. There's some fumbling, the clink of china, and a muttered curse or two, before the guest sticks her head in.

She's a thin, spidery woman with a few grey hairs, wearing an outfit that looks more fit for a law firm than a midnight hot cocoa snack. Her eyes are cloudy with the same slant to them as Castiel's. Her eyes always remind Castiel of the weather this time of year: waiting impatiently for an oncoming storm.

Adra sits down on the edge of Castiel's bed and offers him the mug with bumblebees on it. He takes it with a small nod.

“I can never sleep before storms, you know,” she says, taking a gentle sip from her mug.

“I can never sleep,” Castiel replies, his lips quirking up. His mother doesn't laugh, only glances down with her lips pressed in a thin line. The silence between them is thick. Castiel swallows, staring into his cup. It was the wrong thing to say, and he knows it. He picks up his pen and fiddles with it between his middle two fingers.

"So, there's going to be a storm?" He asks, trying again.

“Yes,” she strains the _'s'_ as if she's whistling through her teeth, “A bad one, as far as I can tell.” She peers over to Castiel's desk, squinting slightly as she tries to make out what's scrawled on the paper. “What are you writing?” Castiel's chest clenches, and he wants, juvenilely, to cover the paper with his arms.

“It's nothing." Castiel defends. The wrong thing, again. He can almost feel his mother recoil. She pulls her mug closer.

“Well,” her lips barely move when she speaks, as if they've been sewn together, “I'll leave you to it then.” He doesn't watch her leave, although everything in him is telling him he should.

The warm steam of his cocoa curls up to the ceiling. His chest feels tight, as if a large part of himself has been thrown far away and he can't bring himself to go and find it. He tries not to think about his mother, now probably standing alone in the kitchen with a cold mug of cocoa. Instead, he fixes his gaze on his desk: the surface is littered with empty sheets of paper, and more than a dozen blue pens. The blank white sheets stare at him mockingly, he stares right back.

His elbow bumps against a book he forgot was there, when he reaches to take drink. A sticky note with the word _'Read!'_ scrawled across it flutters out. He catches it between his fingers, pressing it back into the front cover of the book. For the life of him, Castiel can't remember when he wrote it.

 _Probably when I was at the library with Dean._ He thinks with a grimace. _That boy, good Lord. He was so distracting! Who does he think he is? Showing up late and not doing a thing to help himself._ Castiel sighs. Focusing on the boy won't get the book read any faster.

To compensate, he downs a large mouthful of cocoa and cracks the worn spine of the book. The book seems to hold a light of it's own, that only glows brighter when he runs his fingertips over the page. He loses himself in the words for hours.

A bluster of wind rattles the windows. Castiel drops the book in fright; the front cover flips shut. With a sigh, he leaves the book on his desk. The light from his desk lamp shines a dull yellow throughout the room, mixing with the moonlight. The windows continue to rattle. The light flickers once, twice, and then goes dark, leaving only the moonlight to pour in.

A few long-dead leaves twist around in the air outside. Castiel has to blink a few times to see them properly. He glances at the thermometer on the wall, which is much harder to see in the new darkness. It's cold. He grabs his coat from the wardrobe. Several thudding heartbeats pass through his chest before the wind dies down. The sky that's normally littered with pinprick stars, tonight is shrouded in heavy grey clouds. There is a steady breeze that patters Castiel's chest when he unlatches the window.

The air is sprinkled with a few drops of cold rain, enough for the hairs on his neck to stand up. He feels at ease, climbing out onto the rooftop, even when he starts to shiver. Something light and rectangular bumps against his hip from inside the pocket of his coat. His phone, he supposes. He shrugs it off. He sits down on the already damp rooftop, the rough gravel shingles sticking pebbles to his palm.

Another gust of wind sends a flurry of yellow leaves up into the air. The colors are muted in the darkness, but Castiel follows them with his eyes until they fall back down to the bottom of Eden. It reminds him of Adra's hair, the color it was before it started to grey just a few years ago. _I supposed there is no reason to avoid it now_ Castiel thinks, feeling his gut squeeze at the thought of his mother. He tilts his head up, spotting the moon glimmer from behind some wispier clouds. Some of the light comes down in streams, leaving a strip of the sky pale blue. Castiel wonders if his mother is looking, too. She's only two floors below him, he could very well go down and check. If he were feeling reckless, he would even jump down from the roof, like he had done a handful of times in his earlier days.

But it has been years since he's done any of that. And Adra is likely asleep in her bed, still in her pantsuit with her hair pinned up. Castiel had been no taller than her shoulder the last time they had watched the stars together. Tonight, there are no stars to see.

 

Morning shows up sooner than Castiel expects. He dozed on the roof, he gathers, evident by the small line of drool trailing down his chin, and the sun glaring gold at him from across the horizon. The evergreens in the far corner of Eden, and the curling iron gate, are silhouetted by the morning sun. Dawn pauses long enough for Castiel to compose himself and suck in a deep breath. When the sun bleeds in over the horizon, he exhales and feels lighter than air.

When he steps back into his room, Castiel takes his poem off the desk and carefully tucks it into his coat pocket. Down in the kitchen, his mother sits alone at the table, sipping a cup of coffee. She's got some papers in a stack in front of her. She doesn't look up when Castiel grabs a banana off of the fruit stand, only swallows her coffee and tells him to bring an umbrella. Castiel thanks her and heads out the back door.

Out in Eden, Castiel kicks some of the fallen leaves off the stone pathway. Everything smells raw, like it's waiting for the rain. Castiel eats his banana in haste, eager to get the garden ready for the storm. The air smells thick, even in the spidery cold. Castiel glances back at Adra through the glass doors; she looks away, back down to her papers.

There is a small bird at the foot of a tree near the back gate, lying still. Castiel covers it in flowers. Thunder rolls through the clouds above him. A shiver runs through Castiel, so he buttons his coat with shaking fingers. He tries to scoop a few leaves out of the fountain, but his hands ache with cold.

The warm air back in the kitchen is inviting. Adra is onto her second cup of coffee. Castiel's gaze lingers on her; there are circles under her eyes and a few strands of hair out of place. A lump sits uncomfortable in Castiel's throat. He holds it until he's up to the second floor bathroom, where he hacks out a cough and a lump of mucus. The bathroom sink is white and shines like it's never been touched. Castiel grips the faucet handle, coughing still. _I need to be more careful._ His hand shakes, still bright red from the cold, when he grabs a bottle of painkillers and stuffs it into his empty pocket. He thinks about finding his inhaler, but he forgets about it the moment he hears his mother creak by on the stairs.

"Castiel? Do you need anything?" Her voice is quiet, just outside the closed door.

"No, Mother, thank you."

"Very well. I'll be leaving shortly, give me a call if you... Well."

"Yes."

She walks away. Castiel holds his breath.

He stops shaking by the time he's gotten his books into his backpack.

 

Thunder explodes over the entire sky; Castiel just barely ducks into the Shop room before the rain starts, pounding the ground with fat, heavy drops. Inside Shop is warm and above all, dry. He takes his seat near the teachers desk, watching a few more early birds shuffle into the room, already dripping. Flashes of lightning make the sky light up like a spring day. There's a roll of thunder loud enough to shake the building; the door swings open and a cold blast meets the back of Castiel's neck. That's when Dean Winchester walks in.

He doesn't so much walk in as drag himself into view: his many layers of clothes all stick to him, and his shoulders are hunched. It's as if some of the storm outside got dumped into his head rather than onto it, from the way his eyes can't seem to pick themselves up from the floor. A shiver runs down Castiel's neck when the boy passes him, and he's sure it's not from the cold. Dean drops like a dead weight into his chair. The line of his jaw is tight, a few drops of water leaving a shiny streak down his chin. He licks his lips.

Castiel realizes he is staring, and looks away.

The boy in the trenchcoat turns his attention to the rain-streaked window next to the door. A war rages just beyond the confines of the room, lightning burning up the sky as if it's a mid-summer morning, followed almost immediately by a rumble of thunder that Castiel can feel in his chest only because he's waiting for it. It isn't long before he's turned back to face the classroom. His throat feels thick again. Castiel swallows it down, squeezing his eyes shut. When they open, his eyes find Dean like he's the beacon on a lighthouse. It unsettles Castiel, making him grind his teeth down and look anywhere else in the room. There's a poster on the wall of a feline clinging to a tree branch, asking in bright blue letters _"Is it Friday yet?"_ There are half a dozen like posters around the room, animals and brightly-colored, if not generic, phrases. He takes another look at Dean, who's chatting idly with a greasy-haired young boy at the same table. Dean looks up at Castiel. Castiel curses and goes back to staring at the walls.

By the time the bell rings, Castiel is utterly bored, nearly ready to sue whoever decided chimpanzees were proper motivators. But considering all the glances at Dean that he doesn't take, he thinks it's worth it.

 

Castiel enters his English class with a stifled groan. The desks have all been moved into groups of two or three, with index card nametags on each. Mrs. Leonard is apologizing for all the index cards, and assures everyone that the projector should be working again by next week. The lights flicker overhead. Excited murmurs spring up and ripple across the class. Castiel finds the seat unfortunately labeled _'Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester'_ and takes a seat.

Dean saunters into class a few minutes later, despite leaving Shop at the same time as Castiel. Castiel pointedly doesn't notice him come in, having already engrossed himself into the book. That doesn't stop Castiel from praying, silently, that Dean won't try to make conversation with him.

As it turns out, Dean has very little interest in much going on in the class, Castiel included. Castiel sees him take his phone out almost immediately, and spend the rest of class tapping away on the small phone keyboard. The only time Dean interacts with him is when he asks to meet at the library again after school. Castiel agrees, and Dean goes back to his phone.

 

Castiel shakes his umbrella off before walking into the library, the automatic doors _swoosh_ -ing as he goes through. The tail of his coat makes a wet sound against his legs, dripping down onto his socks. Castiel squirms. _If the rain keeps up, I will get soaked on the way home, umbrella be damned._ Rain pounds on the roof of the library. For what is probably the hundredth time today, he coughs. He tries to keep the wettest part of his clothing off the wooden chair when he sits down. His backpack is drenched, despite his best efforts. The only part of him that's even remotely dry is the inside of his coat pockets, where his book and the bottle of painkillers sit. He takes the book out, it lands heavily on the desk. He rubs his eyes and looks back at the front entrance, wondering idly when Dean is going to arrive.

As if on cue, the front doors slide open to reveal Dean, with a younger, shaggy-haired boy trailing behind him. Castiel recognizes him: Sam is his name. They've shared a conversation or two whenever they ran into one another in the fiction section. Sam and Dean looks similar, Castiel won't be surprised Dean is the brother Sam had griped about before. _'Unbelieveably thick and assholeish,'_ was the way Sam had put it.

What surprised Castiel is Dean's expression. He has a grin that stretches across his entire face, a stark contrast to the brooding glare Castiel saw on him only a few short hours ago. His shoulders no longer sag; they're not upright, standing at attention like a soldier, but rather relaxed, like someone lifted a great weight off of them. His eyes are still heavy, even though they're glowing. Castiel wonders how many early-mornings Dean has hauled himself into for someone else's sake.

Dean ruffles Sam's floppy hair and tells him they'll be staying a while. Sam's smile only widens when he spots Castiel across the room, waving excitedly. Dean's look of surprise isn't hard to spot, either. Sam walks in step with his brother. Castiel greets him with a nod, and Sam excuses himself to go elsewhere. Dean is left, standing right in front of Castiel, looking much taller than he has before.

"So, you two know each other?" Dean asks, raising his eyebrows at Castiel. Something in Dean's eyes shuts down, his motions stiffer as he leans his hip against the table. His shoulders are tense. Castiel clears his throat thickly.

"Yes." He looks Dean up and down quickly. "Is there a problem?" Dean waves his hand dismissively.

"No problem at all." He nods slightly towards the book in front of Castiel. "So," he takes the seat across from Castiel, his shoulders dropping just enough for Castiel to register it. "How far have you read?" Castiel answers with a quick summary of the last part he remembers: the scene of Frankenstein's youngest brother's funeral. "Same here." Dean nods. A question bubbles up at the back of Castiel's throat.

"If you don't mind my asking, what do you think of it so far?" Castiel tilts his head to the side. Something shifts uncomfortably in his throat. He ignores it. "I think it's interesting how--" Nope. His throat, he coughs heavily. It doesn't help. He keeps coughing. He stands on shaky legs, tucking his chin into his elbow. His face is heating up. If the chair topples over on his way out, he doesn't know it.

The door to the men's room slams shut behind him. His lungs feel empty, too empty, and his eyes are watering to the point that the sink in front of him is nothing but a blur. His jacket smells like rain. Violent coughs. His tongue tastes like salt. A mouthful of mucus falls into the sink. He spits. His rose runs; more salt. His knuckles are white on the sink's edge. A couple cold tears start to stream down his cheeks. More coughs erupt. His lungs are empty, his mouth is full. There's a metallic tang coating his tongue, now. The spots in the sink turn red. Air! He needs air. His bottom lip quivers. Air. _Air!_

He doesn't realize there's a hand thumping hard against his back until there's another mouthful of blood in the sink. And air! Sweet air, filling his lungs. The first few lungfuls he sucks in are desperate and gasping. He spits out another mouthful of salty mush. He gestures vaguely to the wall; the person behind him grabs a wad of paper towels and holds it out for him. Castiel wipes his mouth and tosses the towel away, grimacing. He takes a slow breath before turning to face his helper.

Dean.

Castiel wants his throat to close up again, just so he can shut his eyes. But it doesn't. Dean only stands in front of him. Castiel can't look away; Dean's eyes are green. The room gets about ten degrees warmer. Castiel drops his gaze, until he realizes that he's at eye-level with Dean's parted lips. He looks back up. Silence.

 _Say something,_ he wants to beg the boy, even though he only expects and insult to come from him. The silence is awful.

"You alright?" Dean asks. _What?_ Castiel can only blink.

"Excuse me?" is all he manages. He coughs weakly.

"You look-- I mean--," Dean stammers, looking down. The break in eye contact is jolting, Castiel feels his stomach lurch. "To be frank, dude, you look awful as piss. I wanted to-- I mean, can I do anything to help?"

"No." Castiel squints at the boy. Dean leans back, giving Castiel room to breathe. "Thank you, though." He adds.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure. No problem," Dean checks his watch. "You okay? Are you ready to head back?" He raises his eyebrows again. Castiel draws in a breath slowly, wiping his hands on a paper towel.

"Yes." Castiel nods. Dean hesitates before he turns away, as if there's something more he meant to say. "Is there something else, Dean?"

Dean turns back. Opens his mouth, pauses, and closes it. But Castiel watches Dean's hand's move, digging into his pocket and pulling out a square of paper. He holds it out for Castiel.

"You dropped this." As soon as Castiel takes it, Dean turns away. Castiel runs a thumb along the creased edge, tucking it back into his pocket without unfolding it. He watches Dean yank the door open, following him just a step behind.

 

“So, what did you think? Of the book, I mean.” Dean asks. They're back at their table, sitting across from one another.

“I love it. The writing is beautiful.” He replies. Dean flips through his copy of the book, scanning the page for what Castiel hopes is something to say.

"Yeah, I know. I really liked this part, here. It was right after the kid's funeral, you know--" Dean clears his throat. " _'only consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings are at an end for ever. A sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He can no longer be a subject for pity; we must reserve that for his miserable survivors._ ' I like it, talkin' about death being a release, and all that.”

“I suppose it can be though of that way.” Castiel muses. He stares at the page in front of him, trying to contemplate it. But he only gets static. He knows death too well: it is nothing like a release. Castiel hears someone approaching from behind him. Looking up, he sees Dean grinning at someone behind Castiel.

"Heya Sammy," Dean greets his brother. And sure enough, Sam slides into Castiel's view with a stack of six or seven books in tow. _The Outsiders_ is sitting on top.

"Hey Dean, hey Castiel," Sam says, giving Castiel a smile before focusing back on Dean. "Looks, I know we just got here and all, but it looks like the storm's getting bad." As if on cue, the library lights flicker. "See what I mean? We ought to head out before it gets any worse."

"Yeah, I sure don't wanna be here when the demons to show up," Dean smirks, looking up at the ceiling. Castiel wonders vaguely if that's a joke he's not meant to understand. "You got a ride?" Dean looks at Castiel.

“No,” Castiel answers. He looks at Dean quizzically, not understanding why Dean would ask about the status of his transportation.

“I can drop you off.” Dean says. This catches Castiel by surprise. Dean glaces to Sam for confirmation. “C'mon.” He gestures to Castiel's soggy umbrella. "You really think that thing is gonna keep you dry?"

"No," Castiel repeats. "I suppose you're right." Dean grins at him smugly. Castiel coughs twice while packing his bag. Sam goes to check out his books. Castiel looks at Dean for a long moment. "Why are you--"

"Dude, you heard yourself coughing, right? That's bullshit, no one should have to walk home with that, not in this weather."

"I-- Yes. Very well."

Castiel is slinging his backpack over his shoulder when Sam comes back, his books tucked neatly into a plastic bag. With a nod to Dean, they head out.

Dean is two steps ahead of Castiel and Sam, with an umbrella in one hand and keys in the other. Rain slaps the pavement, the inside of Castiel's socks spongey with water. He holds an umbrella over both him and his friend.

"I see you picked _The Outsiders_ ," Castiel says.

"Yeah!" Sam smiles. "We started it in school this week, but I always like to read ahead." Dean stops walking at the back end of a boxy, black car.

"Did you know the author wrote it when she was just sixteen?" Castiel asks. Dean unlocks the trunk, and they drop their bags. Sam tucks his book under his shirt.

"That's so cool!" Sam gets into the passenger seat beside Dean, but turns around to face Castiel. “Did you know, uh...” he pauses to think, brushing the mop of damp hair out of his eyes.

“Now you've done it,” Dean snides from the driver's side, his tone light-hearted.

“Hush,” Sam rolls his eyes. "Did you know that chess was invented in India?” Castiel perks up.

“Yes, I did. Do you know how to play?”

“A bit." Sam shrugs. "I'm not very good since someone--” he shoots a look at Dean-- “never wants to play with me.” Castiel hears Dean chuckle, but he doesn't say a word.

"I would be more than happy to play a game or two with you." Castiel assures him, "Did you know a male cat's penis is sharply barbed along the shaft? I'm fairly certain the females weren't consulted about this.” Dean has to slam on the breaks he's laughing so hard.

"Fuck! Dean!" Sam swears.

"Sorry, Sammy. Just--" He chuckles some more, apparently unable to contain himself. "Jeez, Cas." He shakes his head. Castiel smiles, despite not quite knowing what's so funny.

The storm is at it's peak when Dean rolls up Castiel's driveway. Adra's car is missing, so Castiel can only hope she left the door unlocked. The brothers give him a look as he dashes up the three front steps. Thankfully, the door is unlocked.

The rain is much quieter in the three-story house than it is in a tiny metal car. Through the rain-streaked glass of the front door, he watches the headlights disappear, and he's left alone.

The first thing he does it remove his squelching shoes and leave them to dry over the air vent. Even in his bare feet, his footsteps echo. There's a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese waiting for him in the kitchen. He paces around while waiting for the water to boil, pausing at the back door. Eden stands limply, flooding the plants with more water than they'll ever need. No small creatures are scampering around: they're all, hopefully, tucked away safe in their homes. Castiel searches for their tiny heart beats in the dark, praying that every one of them is alright.

Castiel strolls over to the sitting room, unfortunately named as neither him nor his mother ever actually sit in it. The shades on the windows are rolled up, letting whatever light there is left outside to stream in. An old rocking chair and a hideously floral armchair sit across from one another in the center of the room, separated by a small table. There's a chess board set up on the table, none of the pieces yet moved.

Castiel traces his fingertips over the middle of the board, familiar and cool. White marble pieces stand at attention in front of the rocking chair, while black stand with the armchair. Underneath each piece are letters, carved expertly into the marble: _Castiel was here._

Standing behind the rocking chair, Castiel moves the pawn closest to the queen out a single space, setting it down slowly, deliberately. The rain is a light patter on the roof three stories above him. Closer, he hears the water simmering away on the stove.

Once the heat's turned down and the macaroni is cooking away, he puts his hands into his pockets. _Oh._ He remembers the paper from earlier, resting up against his painkillers. He takes both out. Unfolding the paper is a slow process, even though he knows he shouldn't expect any change. The scrawling of blue ink is all the same, revealing to him poem he wrote earlier this morning. The bottom of the page, however, contains green ink in a handwriting he doesn't recognize. A ten-digit phone number, followed by only six words:

_I get it. I do. --Dean_


	5. Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED 4 JULY 2014  
> Warning; Mentions of masturbation/pensises

Bobby's dog, a lunking idiot Rottweiler he calls Rumsfeld, whines and scratches at the back door. The house shakes with a nasty howl of wind, but Dean let's Rummy out the back door anyway. Dean's phone buzzes in his pocket: a text, from a number he doesn't recognize.

Hello, Dean.

He has to rack his brain for a long minute before he realizes who it is that's texting him. 

Oh hey. castiel, right?

Sam wipes his hands with a paper towel. Dean pockets his phone and goes to help stack the dishes up into the cabinet. As he's putting the last one away, Dean hears a whine at the door. Bobby, having just finished scraping some black grime off the bottom of a frying pan, goes to open to door. Rummy bolts through a second before Bobby can get his hand around the doorknob, swinging his dripping tail and leaving muddy paw prints in his wake.

"Balls!" Bobby curses. Dean doesn't hear him, though, he's too busy trying to get the dog's big, pink tongue off of his face. Rummy smells like rot and wet dog. Dean nearly gags.

"I got him!" Sam calls, waving the paper towels in front of Rumsfeld, who stops licking Dean immediately. "C'mere, boy!" Sam clicks his tongue. Rummy's tail sprays water across Dean's shirt. "Rummy!" The dog nearly leaps over Dean to get to Sam, knocking a few chairs over on the way. Dean stands shakily, his shirt covered in muddy paw prints. There's a crash and thud from the back room, followed by the dog barking defeatedly. Sam curses. Bobby and Dean exchange looks, then go over to help Sam.

There's a struggle, with Rummy not wanting to let go of the paper towels and Bobby trying to keep his muddy paws off the old lore books. But eventually, Rummy's teeth unclamp and he whines.

"Damn dog," Bobby mutters. Dean helps him lift the bookshelf back up; a few books topple off anyway.

"Neither of us saw the bookshelf," Sam apologizes, scratching Rummy behind the ears. Dean gives him a look. _Those shelves are nearly six feet high, are they that hard to miss? Dumb kid._ Dean ruffles his brother's hair again. While Bobby goes off to get the dog to his bed, Dean's phone buzzes in his pocket.

Yes. I hope you made it home safely?

not rly home yet, been @ my uncles 4 dinner.

I see.

Dean crouches down and starts to stack up the old books that are scattered across the floor. Most of them are falling apart, or the covers are so faded only a look inside could tell you what they are. And even then, at least half of them are in French, or Japanese. There's a small blue book, buried under some anthology or another, that jumps out at Dean. Wispy gold letters shine on the cover, despite the obvious wear on the rest of the book. _A Collection of Poems_ written by some guy named Brooke. He pockets the book without a second thought.

Thunder explodes in the sky over the house. _Shit_ Dean curses. From downstairs, Rummy barks. The basement stairs creak when Bobby comes back up. Dean slides down next to Sam, sitting on the stairs. The bottom of his boots are caked with dried mud.

“You idjits be safe, alright?” He looks more towards Dean, who's twirling his keys around his finger.

"Sure thing, Bobby." Dean pulls out his phone, nudging his brother to show him the time. Sam squints at the screen. Dean gets a text. "We gotta get going, gonna miss curfew." He taps out a quick message.

"Who you textin', boy?" Bobby asks. Dean only shrugs. 

gonna hit the road.

“See ya, Bobby.” Dean grins to his uncle before he leaves.

The boys are drenched by the time they get to the car. Dean drops his phone into his lap, feeling it vibrate against his leg, as the engine hums to life. The radio goes up louder than the pounding rain. Even with the windshield wipers at full blast, he has trouble seeing.

"Are we sure this is safe?" Sam shouts over all the white noise.

"Come on Sammy, live a little!" Dean laughs, hitting the gas.

The stop sign leading out away from Bobby's house has 'Hamer Time' in white spray paint on it. They can barely see it through the rain, but they know what it says. Dean eases his foot onto the break, remembering his phone squished under his thigh. 

I hope you are not texting while you drive, it's unwise considering the weather.

yea thanks mom but i think ill b fine

I am not your mother.

They're out on the main road when there's a sudden glare of headlights that Sam barely catches through the side mirror. It happens in an instant: an eighteen wheeler comes out of nowhere, too fast and too close for comfort. It doesn't see them, just keeps bowling through the dark. Dean sees it at the last second, headlights glaring through the back window, and swerves. Water from a puddle sprays up on the side of the car. _Fuck!_ Dean isn't sure if he thinks it or says it out loud. He's gripping the steering wheel, his heart pounding up in his throat. There's a moment of shocked silence, save for the music, that Dean glances over at Sam, who's staring wide-eyed at nothing. They turn to each other and explode in a fit of terrified laughter.

"'Live a little', gee, thanks for the advice," Sam says, glaring at his brother.

"Coulda warned a guy."

Sam shrugs and shrinks a little in his seat.

The rest of the drive is calm in comparison. The porch light splutters when they drive up, finally giving up and going dark when they reach the front door.

It's not the first time Dean is glad the heater's broken. The brothers shiver, stripping off all their wet clothes and tossing them onto the top of the dryer. Sam makes his way to the kitchen table, pulling some damp school books out of his backpack. John is strewn across the couch, a game of baseball playing on TV softly. The living room lights up a vague shade of green from the television. The whole house shakes with the thunder.

it was a joke dude. I shoulda listened anyway, we almost died on the way home lol

I apologize, I didn't realize you were joking.

its fine

Was your other comment a joke as well? About almost dying?

well sorta. bigass truck came outta nowhere + nearly ran us over. were ok tho.

I'm glad.

“Hey dad,” Dean calls, grabbing a couple of Cokes out of the fridge and handing one to Sammy. Dad, he realizes, is fast asleep. A half-empty beer can rests between his elbow and the arm of the couch. Dean grimaces, setting the can on the coffee table.

yea. so anyway.

He pauses before hitting send, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He's not sure if it's the booze or Castiel himself, but Dean isn't sure what to say next.

Yes? Is there something you'd like to say?

idk?

Dean takes a seat beside Sammy, who's already busy working on some assignment or another. There are a few crumpled worksheets in Dean's bag that he guesses he should work on, so he takes them out and smooths them against the table. It turns out one of them is the assignment sheet for _Frankenstein_. An idea strikes him. 

so I liked ur poem

Not the most eloquent, but he figures he should bring it up sooner or later.

I noticed.

o?

That is how you gave me your number. Or did you forget that part?

no I just... idk. never mind.

Well then.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam asks from the other side of the table. Dean looks up. “Can I get help with something?” His eyes dart over to their dad, like he needs to make sure he's actually asleep. Dean gestures at him to go on. “Well, uh, how do you--” He makes a vague hand gesture. “You know, when you're trying to get attention from-- I mean...” He twirls hair around one of his fingers, as if that'll help Dean figure him out.

“Is this charades? 'Cause Sammy, you suck.” Dean grins. “Are you tryin' to woo Jess or somethin'? Just mention you're my brother, that'll get her going.” A wad of paper hits him in the head. “Okay, fine. What kind of lady is she?” Sam scrunches up his face, trying to remember.

“Well, she has blonde hair.”

"Really? This girl you've been pining after for God-knows how long, all you can tell me is that she's _blonde_. You're hopeless." Dean sighs dramatically. 

“Shut up!" Sam sticks his tongue out. "She's tall, and really nice, and she likes animals. Oh! And she likes art, I've seen her name on a lot of the stuff outside the art room.” He answers more confidently. Dean stares at him for a minute before laughing.

“She sounds way out of your league, bro. But you should talk to her about art 'n stuff.” Dean ruffles Sam's hair. 

tht came out wrong, srry. what inspired u to write?

Words will... Appear in my head, so I write them down.

really? like a prophet? Lol

He chuckles. The rubric in front of him has a list of vocabulary words from each chapter. Before he knows it, he's staring down at his phone screen again.

If you want to see it that way. Although, generally prophets are seen as messengers of God's word, not poetry.

don't tell me ur parents raised you to be one of those religious weirdos?

Taking a large swig of his soda, he checks to see that Sammy's doing okay. He all but forgets his worksheet the next time he gets a text. 

My mother raised me to be a man of faith, nothing more.

ok. what about your dad? he a religious weirdo too?

The empty soda can drops with a hollow clink into the trash can. Dean makes a mental note to put the trash out before school tomorrow. The countertop is sticky and smells like alcohol when he runs his hand over it. He grabs some paper towels, cleaning up the spill that Dad probably didn't notice. Sam's eyes bore into him from across the room, but he doesn't say a word.

I do not appreciate you calling my faith weird, Dean. And my father is... Absent.

Dean's gut clenches. He sets his phone down and keeps cleaning the counter. When the mess is clean, he picks up his phone and stares at it. _Way to go, Winchester._

I didnt know, srry

He doesn't notice he's holding his breath, until his phones rings and he exhales heavily.

That is quite alright; there was no way you could have known. What about your parents?

Dean stiffens.

Y would u want to know?

The white noise of the TV whines. Aggravated, Dean flicks it off when he passes by to get to Sam's room. On the couch, his dad mumbles something and rolls over. Dean's glad he moved the beer when he did, otherwise it would've been all over his dad's shirt by now.

I was merely reciprocating the question you asked of me.

He knows he should answer, but _'yeah, my mom's dead and my dad's a raging alcoholic'_ doesn't tend to make the best first impression.

my dads a good guy. my mom was the nicest woman youd ever meet. thats all there is to it, rly.

They sound lovely.

Whatevr.

Unlike Dean's room, the dirty clothes in Sam's room are all neatly dumped in the hamper, instead of all over the floor. Dean sighs and hauls the hamper over his shoulder. Out in the kitchen, Sam's textbook closes with a thud. Dean lets go of the hamper for a second to ruffle Sam's hair. He's surprised the handles don't break from how worn they are.

The washer and dryer sit in the closet next to the front room, clothes baskets and detergent on the shelf above them. Dean moves the wet clothes from the storm into the dryer. Sam already separated his clothes into lights and darks from the bottom up. _Neat freak,_ Dean grins. Using up the last of the detergent, Dean dumps the dirty clothes into the washer.

Do you read as much as your brother, Dean?

nah, unless u count playboy and motor trend. y?

How tasteful of you. I was curious, that's all.

O. K then.

The rest of the clothes are thrown into the basket and put on top of the whirring machine. Dean has to kick it a few times to get it started right. The dials are already set, so he hits start and hip-checks the door shut. _I hope we don't lose power again, the laundromat is miles away_.

I have to finish my studying now. Can we continue this conversation later?

yeah sure. But why r u spendin the night studyin? tht seems so pointless. 

I like to learn.

Have a good evening. 

The next couple hours drag on. Dean checks all the cabinets twice, making a short list of groceries. He taps his fingers on the door of the fridge, half-eyeing the six pack on the door, half hoping his phone will go off again.

He takes his final jacket layer off once he starts to sweat again. He remembers why he hates the heater. Something heavy in the pocket swings down and bumps his arm. He remembers the blue book as soon as he pulls it out. The cover got splattered with a few drops of rain, but it's still in decent shape.

Kicking a couple pillows off to the side, Dean pushes his bedroom door open. It's not as clean as he thought it would be: the sheets that usually bunch up at the foot of his bed are thrown across the floor, following the pillows and some pizza crusts. A pair of muddy boots sits on the mattress. Unopened text books are used as a coaster for empty beer cans. And as usual, his dresser has clothes hanging off it like it's a coat rack. A crooked _Queen_ poster hangs on the far wall. The only thing organized in his room is the stack of torn envelopes sitting on his desk. 

Slipping out of his jeans and into sweats is more refreshing than he expected. The sweats are warm from being stuffed on top of the air vent all afternoon, making his legs tingle comfortably. He tosses his jeans into the nearly-empty clothes hamper. They miss and land over some other clothes he hasn't bothered to pick up yet. He tosses his phone next; it bounces from landing on the bed. There's an unopened envelope on his pillow from Charlie.

The back of the envelope is filled with lazy scribbles in a bight purple pen; the front is addressed to a _Sir Dean Winchester._. He tears the top off greedily. A couple of photos fall out : girl with long red hair wearing a suit of armor stands next to a darker skinned girl in a purple dress, both of them smiling. The back is labeled “Charlie and Gilda” in Sharpie, with a heart next to it. Dean smiles when he reads it. The other photo is of him and Charlie, the red head, last time he saw her about six months ago. He's wearing some costume chain mail and face paint, full-body laughing at something his friend had said, the sunlight behind him making the whole photo glow orange. He longs for the smell of firewood and the hot, dry air of Charlie's hometown. He doesn't see her nearly enough. 

He tucks both photos into the side of his mirror, high enough that he can he them when he checks himself out. Which he does, forcing a half-hearted smile at his reflection. His hair is still sticking down on his forehead, making him look dank and damn angry. His smile melts into a grimace, scowling at nothing in particular. Then he tries a smile, light and flirty, like he might give a cute girl. Much better. He turns to leave, stopping as his hand rests on the doorknob. His phone is still on his bed, silent as ever. He walks out. 

There's movement through the living room. The first thing Dean registers is that Dad awake, is sitting up on the couch glaring with heavy eyes at the dark TV screen. 

“Hey Dad.” Dean's voice is quiet, trying not to disturb John as he scrubs his face with his hands. There's a grunt in response. Dean looks over to his little brother, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “How was work?” John works full time as a mechanic across town, one of the better jobs he's gotten in the past few years. 

“Damn place lost power after an hour,” Dad gripes, more to himself than Dean, “Came back on after a while, 'course, but we couldn't get nearly enough...” he mumbles some more that Dean doesn't catch. John raises his empty hand to his lips, pulling back and inspecting it once he realizes there's no beer there. 

“I moved the--” Dean reaches over to grabs the can off the table, just as John starts to reach for it. Dean jerks back like he's been burned, letting John grab the can. 

“Dean.” Sam hails him from over in the kitchen. Dean watches John take another swallow, then goes to help his brother. His hand goes to Sam's shoulder, peering over him at the page he's working on. A whole lot of nothing, it looks like. “Get this,” Sam says as he pulls out a rubric, a few lines highlighted with a dying yellow marker. “We have this project in shop and we've gotta design something out of wood. Problem is, I've got no idea what to do.” 

“How 'bout a Death Star?” Dean offers. 

“Dean, come on. I'm being serious.” 

“Alright, alright. What about a dragon? They have those in the geek books you read, right?” Dean jests. His brother glares at him, but his pencil makes a few light strokes over the page. He squints and leans closer to the paper to get more detail, his tongue sticking out from between his teeth. 

“Actually, that's not bad.” The tips of Sam's hair nearly brush against the page. Dean thinks he catches Sam muttering something about asking Jess to help him out. He ruffles the kid's hair and takes a seat beside him, swinging his feet up onto the table. Groping around in his pocket for his phone that isn't there, Dean pulls out the book of poems instead. 

The pages are faded with age, smelling like mothballs and ink. _Huh, Ash said old books smell bad,_ Dean thinks. It reminds him of a few summers ago, when they were up in New England and Sam would drag him into this little used book store every day, sometimes just to smell the pages. Dean called him a freak more than once.

It doesn't take long before he's lost in the book. A few of the poems he has to read twice, just to get the tone right. Absently, he runs his thumb down the page while he reads. The storm has dwindled into a heavy rain, beating on the roof. Dean relaxes into the sound, letting the rain carry him right through the poems. Something stirs in his chest.

He's halfway through the book when the alarm on his watch goes off. _Shit,_ He fumbles with the buttons for a second, startled out of his reading trance. The watch face glows a bright 8:32 PM, but Dean can't for the life of him remember why he set it. He runs a hand through his hair, listening to the loud sheet of rain overhead. His hair is slick, not just from the rain, and it leaves his hand with a coat of oil. _Oh, that's right._

Sam stands at the same time Dean does, yawning and telling Dean he's heading to bed. Dean calls him a pussy, it's not even nine o'clock yet! Sam just glares and trudges off. Heading back to his room as well, Dean tosses the book onto the bed next to his phone. He strips down and wraps a towel around his waist.

Like the rest of the house, the water's too hot when he steps under the stream. But all his shoulder muscles relax under the water, so he doesn't mind much. He lets the mirror fog up. The shampoo bottle is almost out, but Dean has just enough to give himself an awesome shampoo mohawk. Once he's washed his hair out, he decides to think about that girl from Shop with the chest tattoo. He takes his cock in one hand and bites his other fist, jerking it fast until he has to wash come off the shower wall. He comes with his tongue out. His grin is gleeful and he feels a thousand times more relaxed when he steps out into the cold.

The air in his room isn't nearly as cool as he wants it to be when he steps out. He towels off as fast as he can and climbs into bed wearing only a pair of boxers and an old t-shirt. Anything else on the bed gets kicked off, landing on the floor with a thud.

The house around him creaks under the strain of the storm, not nothing more than a light shower. A stray car or two passes by the street outside. Dean falls back on his pillow, hardly remembering to kick the boots off the end of his mattress. His eyes shut slowly.

 _Bzzt, bzzt._ The silence is ripped open by the vibrating of his cell phone. His eyes spring back open and his gears turn like someone revved the engine. He flings his hand down and gropes around on the floor. 

Good evening. Sorry for the delay, I hope it's not too late for you to respond.

Dean rubs his eyes and reads the message twice.

nah ur good, cas. Howd studying go?

'Cas?' It was productive; I've been looking more into astronomy.

Wat? Its easier than typin out Castiel. + astronomy, rly? 

Very well. And astronomy, yes: space and stars.

I know what it is, Im not that dumb.

My apologies. Do you know any constellations?

Dean blinks again and props himself up on his elbows. He remembers the dry heat of both Colorado and Kansas, the open road where hills were practically non-existent, and the tiny towns where cable TV was a modern invention. 

Yea. I used to take Sammy out to look at em when dad wasnt around. he always knew more than me, the fucker. his favorites orion

There aren't many stars out here. Did you used to live somewhere else?

Yea

Where?

Lotsa places. Everywhere. Doesnt rlly matter.

Very well.

So Cas. Whats up with u?

I am hoping my garden won't get flooded with all this rain.

The comment catches Dean by surprise. 

U garden?

Yes, I have for years.

Yea? Wut kinda stuff do u grow? vegetables n shit?.

He chuckles to himself in the dark, knowing that he's not being all that funny. 

Lots of flowers, and trees. Some seasons I let everything grow out, just to see what happens.

Dean reads the text twice, then stares off ahead of him. There's a small flower pot with a tiny cactus in it on the windowsill, that Charlie gave him last summer. They had never had enough room for a real garden, and God knows Dean hardly remembers to water the cactus anyway. 

thts actually rlly cool.

Thank you. It's always been fascinating to me. I love watching how it all comes together.

I guess, sure. does ur garden have a name? lol

Eden.

O god not again

If you really detest religion that much, I won't mention it again.

No its fine. i was kidding, cas. sorry tht wasnt clear

Oh. I didn't understand.

I wasnt clear sry about tht.

hey, u ever heard of a guy named brooke? Rupert Brooke?

I don't believe so. Why?

hes a poet, idk maybe youd like his stuff

Something about that must have struck both of them, because the conversation picks up quickly from there. Castiel talks about a lot of things Dean doesn't understand, like what the hell a 'gerund' is. He asks Cas a lot of questions, though. 

do u know any other languages?

Several. English, Japanese, Russian, and Enochian, among others.

can u share somethin?

Virg a butmon levithmong

Thts cool, what does it mean?

“You breed with the mouth of a goat.”

Uh. lol?

It's funnier in Enochian.

Pff, whatevr you say, dude.

Dean laughs anyway. It's nearly two in the morning by then. Dean is about to shoot Cas a message saying he's really got to get to sleep, when a poem shows up in his inbox. Something about raindrops and spiders and other pretty words he can't quite process any more. He hits send anyway, hoping Cas isn't up too much later than him. He doesn't want to leave the kid alone. But his eyes shut of their own accord, and he's asleep before he sees a reply. 

Usually, waking up on Friday morning is a million times easier than any other day of the week. It would be still, if Dean got a decent night sleep. He rubs sleep crush from his eyes. His phone has three messages waiting for him, one for Cas and two from Jace, a girl in his Shop class.

Dad made it back to his bedroom some time in the night, Dean gathers by the lack of John on the couch. Sam hands him a plate of French toast that's nearly swimming in syrup.

“What's this? You tryin' to fatten me up, eh Sammy?” Dean chides, grabbing some utensils from the drawer. 

“You're already fat enough, jerk.” Sam waves the spatula at him. But his face falls. “Hey, Dean?” 

“Yes, Samantha?” Dean takes a seat at the head of the table. Sam turns back to the frying pan. 

“I uh, I think I need glasses.” He spits it out like it hurts to say, so fast Dean barely catches it. "And I know-- I know they can get expensive, I could just get a cheap pair." Sam tries to justify, sliding his gaze over to their dad's bedroom door. Setting his fork down, Dean takes a deep breath. His brother turns back to him when he speaks.

“Don't you worry about that, Sammy," Dean assures him. "Worryin' is my job. I'll give someone a call after school.” 

Dean looks over to the worn leather wallet on the counter, then back at Sam. Sam's smile is worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could track tumblr tags if anyone would be interested? My tumblr url is dragongem! Shoot me a message or somefin.


	6. Moose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna be honest with y'all, this chapter is like, 80% filler + Dean and Cas texting. Whoops. Would I like you to read it? Yes. Do you absolutely have to? No. I won't be horridly offended if you skip it to get to the meat of the story.

Castiel wonders if English is Ash's first language, because honestly, half the words that come out of his mouth sound foreign. Even to someone who knows a dozen or more languages fluently, he doesn't get what on Earth Ash is trying to say. The boy in question, sporting a rather distasteful mullet, is prattling off about a nature documentary he saw recently on moose. Dean and his friend Jo are paying rapt attention. Castiel, on the other hand, wonders how they keep up. The blonde girl, Jo, keeps looking over at him and smiling, as if to ask if he understands. Castiel tries not to look as lost as he actually is.

"Moose can swim, seriously, it's a part of their evolution," Ash explains excitedly. He pauses to snag a couple pretzels from the pile. "When their ancestors had to migrate from Siberia." There is a hoard of food in the middle of the table that everyone takes a bite from occasionally, all a potluck from whatever the trio had brought in that day. Today, there are pretzels, potato chips, a sandwich and a half, and some smushed brownies. No one is entirely sure who brought what. Cas takes a chip and crunches on it.

He has been chatting with Dean and Jo idly during their English class all week, but it's only today that they asked him to join them for lunch.

"I can show you the documentary I found if you don't believe me." Ash insists. A groan rises from the other two. Absently, while reaching for half of a sandwich, Dean leans closer to Castiel.

"God, no, last time we had to sit through two hours on the history of the mariachi band," Jo gripes, popping a brownie into her mouth. "How is it that you're the nerd of all of us?"

"It's the hair," Ash decides, flipping his mullet over his shoulder. "Only the most bad ass can pull off such a 'do."

"Whatever, Doctor Bad Ass. What are we gonna watch on Friday?" Jo looks over to Dean and Castiel. Castiel only looks at her, confused, until Dean turns towards him.

"Yeah, Cas, I forgot to mention. We do movie nights at my house every Friday, you wanna join?" Dean asks. Castiel's shoulders tense.

"I can't." He answers, "I have an appointment." His fingers drum over the seam of his coat pocket, before he remembers that it's empty. His chest throbs slightly; he curses himself for forgetting his pain medication. "Next time, I would love to." He meets Dean's eyes for a moment.

"I hope it's a doctor's appointment, dude. You've been coughing up a lung all week." Ash says, chuckling.

"Yeah, 'cause your health is so great, Mister Drinks-Bong-Water," Dean interjects.

"One time!" Ash defends, making a broad flourish of his hand. He accidentally tosses a chip across the table, hitting Jo in the forehead. Everyone laughs, even Castiel.

Evidently, he has much to learn about their small clique.

When the bell rings for them to get back to class, Castiel is struck with the feeling of not wanting to leave. His cheeks are nearly straining with how much he's smiled throughout the single lunch period.

Jo waves to Dean and Cas, and Ash gives Dean a fist-bump before heading down the hall. Dean bumps Cas' shoulder, and walks with him.

“Don't you have to get to class?” Cas asks, starting down the hall to his Physics classroom. Dean walks in step beside him. He shrugs, knocking shoulders with Cas again. There's a stretch of hallway before Cas gets to his class, so he slows down.

“I don't need to be on time, it's just guitar.” Dean shrugs again. They slip into a steady silence for a few beats, “Oh dude,” he says suddenly, “I meant to tell you, Sam's having a friend over this afternoon, so I can't come to the library.” Cas nods. "I know it's been like a week, but, you know. You still need a ride home?"

“Yes. If you don't mind.” Cas watches Dean laugh like he's said something funny.

"C'mon, I wouldn't ask if it was gonna be a problem."

"Yes. Yes, thank you."

And then they're standing outside Castiel's Physics classroom. A few kids push their way past them to get inside, even though they have a minute before the late bell. Dean's hands are jammed into his pockets. Both boys look at each other, before Dean checks his watch and takes a few steps back.

“Awesome. You meet me at the car before the buses leave?”

“Of course,” Cas says, ducking into the classroom just as the late bell rings. He takes his seat near the door, glancing through the glass to see Dean sauntering down the hall like he has all the time in the world. Cas swears he stops to smile at him before turning and walking away.

The rest of the day, Castiel unwittingly spends listening to the seconds tick away on the clock. By the last five minutes of his Chemistry class, he's on the very edge of his seat with his fingers drumming the desk. He slides a hand into his pocket, grasping at nothing. And then, finally, the bell rings. Castiel is out of the door before anyone else.

Outside the building, the air is refreshingly cool. A small gaggle of freshmen are gossiping about who so-and-so is going to ask out, and another group is ragging about how fast they drove away from a party once the cops rolled up. Pretending to tie his shows, Castiel stops to listen to them for a minute. They talk a lot about getting "smacked" or "wasted", which Castiel thinks sounds more painful than pleasant.

Out in the parking lot, he finds Dean leaning back on the hood of the Impala, idly flicking a lighter on and off. The heat makes a small ripple in the air above him, although Dean is more fixated on the flame. Cas stands in silence for a moment, watching his friend's thumb glide back and forth over the safety.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean jumps. The lighter clatters onto the hood of the car and slides a few inches until it hits the ground.

“Fuck, Cas, don't do that!” Dean accuses. He swoops down to pick up the lighter and pocket it. Cas mutters an apology. “S'fine. Just warn a guy next time.” he unlocks the car.

Cas slings his backpack into the back seat. He stalls before walking over to the open passenger's side door and sitting down. Some song Cas doesn't recognize blares through the car's radio. As always, he asks if Dean can turn it down, and as always, Dean tells him that the driver picks the music. After they get onto the main road, Cas turns it off anyway. Dean stops to shoot him a glare, but doesn't try to turn the radio back on.

"So, Dean," Castiel starts, then tells his friend what he overheard on the way to the car.

“Uh, you don't get out much, do you?” Dean asks, in lieu of an answer. He takes a minute to think it over. "Those kids were talking about getting high, dude. Y'know, smoking. Weed, stuff like that." He chuckles. "You're like a big baby in a trenchcoat, aren't you?" Castiel's face heats.

Well.

Castiel turns away from Dean, scowling at the road ahead of them. They come to a stop light, and Cas can feel Dean turn to him.

"Cas, don't-- Don't be like that." Silence. "I mean. Smart as you are, you still have a lot to learn, is all. Wait, shit, no." Dean stumbles over himself. Cas wheezes a small chuckle, in spite of himself, but he still says nothing. Dean dismisses his passenger for the remainder of the drive.

Castiel wishes him a good evening anyway, when Dean pulls up into the driveway.

“Sure thing, Cas.”

The moment Castiel kicks the front door shut, he hears the radio blaring from the car as it drives away. He leaves his shoes by the front door, next to a pair of shiny black heels.

To Castiel's surprise, Adra is standing in the kitchen with a head of lettuce and several other brightly-colored vegetables in front of her. She spots him and startles, dropping her tomato.

"Oh! Hello, Castiel." She gestures for him to sit down in the nearest chair. He does, dropping his bookbag next to the island. "I didn't expect you home so early."

“I got a ride home,” he answers bluntly, tucking his coattails under him as he sits. His mother tells him that she's heading to work once she finishes making her dinner. “You have the night shift?”

“Will that be a problem?” She puts down the knife and leans over the island, eyebrows raised slightly. “I can stay, if you would like.”

“No.” He looks away from her, to the rest of the kitchen counter, and the spice racks on top of the toaster oven. “Have you seen my--” He makes a motion he hopes conveys an inhaler. “The blue one.”

“That's the--” She stops, tilting her head.

“Xopenex.”

“Ah. Right. I've nearly lost track of all your--” she sighs heavily, “I believe it's in the upstairs medicine cabinet.”

His mother watches him carefully as he reaches across the counter to grab a mini tomato from the basket. It's the reddest of the bunch, with a couple drops of water glistening off it's skin. He takes it in hand and bites it clean in half, chewing thoughtfully. Some of the juice drips down the side of his mouth; he wipes it off with the back of his sleeve.

“Are you sure that you don't want me to--”

“Yes.” He pops the other half of the tomato in him mouth, studying his fingernails to avoid his mother's gaze. He looks up anyway, but she's already gone back to making her salad. Castiel stands back up, swaying lightly on his feet.

"I met with Pastor Jim the other day," Adra says dryly, still chopping her lettuce. "He sends his greetings." Castiel shifts. "He said a few people have asked about you, how you're doing." Adra looks up at Castiel. "How are you doing?" Castiel swallows his tomato.

"I am doing fine."

Adra sighs slowly, like she doesn't quite believe him. He turns on his heel, into the sitting room.

The faint sound of the knife hitting the cutting board is all Castiel can hear, his own feet no longer making a sound against the wood floor. Dust floats lazily in the afternoon sun, making the rocking chair cast long shadows across the chess board. A few more pieces have been moved since earlier in the week, but it is once again Adra's turn. There is a rotting log in the unlit fire place along the far wall. Out in Eden, Castiel keeps a small store of chopped wood; he makes a note to bring one in next time.

The mantle over the fireplace is covered in dust. He runs a finger along it, writing his name in the loose grey particles. Staring at it for a second, he feels his nose twitch. A sneeze explodes from him, loud and echoing through the high ceiling.

"Castiel?" Adra calls from out in the kitchen. "Are you alright?"

"Ye--" Castiel starts to say, interrupted by yet another sneeze. "Yes, Mother, I'm alright."

Castiel hasn't heard Adra laugh in years, until then.

"Very well!" She chuckles. Her head appears around the wall separating the kitchen and the sitting room. Her hair falls over her shoulder in a loose braid. Only the ghost of a smile rests on her face, now. "I'm off to work." Castiel turns to her and gives her a nod. "I should be back around midnight." And then she's gone.

The rest of the mantle is still covered in dust. Tucking the three picture frames under his arm, Castiel runs a hand over the smooth wood. The dust flutters everywhere, irritating Cas' nose again.

"I will not sneeze." He tells himself. He doesn't.

Then he dusts off the picture frames themselves. The photographs inside two of them have been turned over, leaving only the white gloss shine to face Castiel. The other one is entirely empty. Furrowing his brow, Castiel checks the date scribbled onto the back of the empty one. _Ah, I would have been thirteen then._ He thinks. Back on the mantle the frames go.

Castiel's hands clasp behind his back as he walks through the kitchen. The glass doors leading out to Eden are ajar, letting a cool breeze blow through the room. Cas lets out a small sigh, and steps into Eden.

The stone walkway underneath his feet is almost painfully cold to the touch. He's careful not to step on any stray bugs. There's something satisfying in the way the dead leaves crunch under his toes. A tiny brown creature scurries across in front of him, over to the pointy hemlock tree right next to the door. Castiel blinks, missing where the creature goes. So he keeps walking.

The fountain, as always, stands in the middle of the garden, water burbling smoothly. He takes a seat on the stone edge, watching the waves lap against the inside. Leaves swirl around in the water, making ripple patterns that expand until they sink. A small gust of wind rustles the tops of the trees. There's a bird or two chattering in the distance. Castiel inhales; it smells vaguely like Christmas pine, but mostly the cold prickles his nose. Flowers that were blooming not a week ago have already begun to brown. The evergreens along the far wall are the main source of color left, at least until spring rolls around.

Cas' feet start to feel prickly in the cold. As steadily as he can, he rushes to the door. Warm air from the kitchen hits his face and his whole body starts to tingle. He rubs his hands together and puffs air into them, hoping they will warm up soon. Hopping on the balls of his feet to try to get his blood pumping, Cas looks over to the island. His mother left a head of lettuce out on the counter, but that isn't what catches his eye: his phone is face-up on the counter, lighting up.

im gonna kill sammy if he doesnt marry this girl

Cas stares at the screen. Typing out his reply is painfully slow, his hands not quite getting their feeling back.

Don't you think you're overreacting?"

plz, im being the best brother! i want sammy 2 be happy!

Castiel can't help but roll his eyes.

If you insist.

It takes Dean a few minutes to respond. Castiel flips his phone upside-down and leaves it on the counter, before circling through the sitting room again. Nothing changed in the minutes since he walked through. He tries to study the chess board, perhaps figure out whether he thinks Adra will move her knight or one of her pawns. The wall separating the kitchen and the sitting room is very bare, he notices after turning to glance at it. Rather, he tries to glance through it at the island in the kitchen, to see if his phone is lighting up again.

He hesitates. Turns back to the chess board.

Goes back into the kitchen anyway.

There's a multimedia message waiting for him on his phone: a heavily pixelated image. Two people sitting on a sagging, red couch, leaning close to each other. Someone with a tangle of blonde hair, and a lanky kid with shaggy brown hair. Sam and Jess, Castiel guesses. He squints at the screen: the kid's knees are just barely touching. Even through the pixels, Cas can see how wide Sam is smiling.

u see what i mean?

They are quite beautiful.

Castiel doesn't want to look away from the phone while his message sends.

not as beautiful as me :p

He feels like someone twisted up his stomach.

tht was a joke cas.

Ah, I see.

did u see sammys new glasses? i helped him pick them out.

Cas flips back to the image, and sure enough, Sam has oval glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose.

im rly glad i could save up tips from work. i mighta taken some of jos tip money without realizin :o(

I wasn't aware you had a job.

yea, jo and i work at her moms restaurant. harvelle's roadhouse, down off main st. u ever been?

I have, a few times. Does Ash work there as well?

dude practically lives in the back room, lol.

hold up

Another multimedia message, but this time it's a video. While it loads, Cas leaves his phone and goes up to grab his textbooks. His muscles are smarting by the time he's climbed up the stairs and pulled himself through the trapdoor. The room itself is bleak. Shaking out his arms, Castiel unlatches one of the windows and pushes it open, a breeze washing over him. He takes his textbooks and the week-old hot chocolate mug off the desk and down to the kitchen with him. 

The video loads by the time Cas returns. The camera shakes for a second before steading and zooming in slowly. Dean is somewhere across the room from Sam. Both figures on the couch laugh, Sam throwing his head back and Jess leaning into his shoulder, shrouding her face in hair. When Sam looks back down, his eyes land directly on the camera. Cas hears Sam curse a couple times, then the screen shakes and the video shuts off.

mission unsuccessful! i was discovered! :(

That is unfortunate.

i kno! they kicked me out so now im stuck in my room.

Again, very unfortunate. I can keep you company, if you would like.

fuck yea id like tht

You have been talking quite a lot today.

rly? i didnt notice

That is quite alright. Is there anything else you would like to discuss?

While Dean replies, another message pops up on Cas' screen.

castiel, can you tell dean that if he spies on he again i'm going to run him over with my bike?

Of course, Sam. Although I do not understand why you can't tell him yourself.

i'm busy!!

Castiel grins.

have u done any more 4 tht project? tbh ive been slackin

Ah, it seems I haven't been keeping up either. We couldn't get to it today, should we try to get to the library tomorrow?

Cas grapples under his shirt for his rosary beads. The two of them haven't been back to the library since the incident last week. Dean keeps having conflicts with Sam, and Castiel, well, Castiel feels his face flush every time he thinks about the coughing fit he had had. He figured it was best to put it off.

hell yea tht works for me. will u be ok goin back?

Yes, of course.

rad. cuz u kno how dangerous libraries can be. 2 much learning in one place

not like school @ all

It isn't until Cas opens his messages and laughs out loud that he realizes just how empty his house is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Useless moose facts courtesy of http://cutemoose.net/moose_facts.htm)


	7. Thanks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED 27 JULY 2014  
> Warnings: minor recreational drug use (marijuana), non-explicit sexual situation

Thanksgiving weekend sneaks up on everyone, and before Dean knows it, both Ash and Jo are wishing him a happy holidays and leaving with their respective families. Which leaves Sam and Dean alone with John. Dean has plans to waste the whole day sleeping, but after scoring a pre-cooked chicken from the supermarket, Sam insists they give the holiday a shot this year.

Dean wakes up sneezing with a dead weight on his chest. There's a lump of orange cat laying on him, paws outstretched, rumbling loudly. Gabe only purrs louder when Dean calls out to his brother. Sam barges in, his hair a mess and his glasses pushed up to his forehead. Dean sneezes twice, but still the cat doesn't move.

"Gabe!" Sam sighs in relief, knocking his glasses back down. The cat mews, digging it's claws into Dean's chest happily. "I've been looking for you everywhere!" Dean pushes the cat off, earning him a couple puncture wounds on his flat pecs.

"Bastard's been sleeping here the whole time." Dean sniffs indignantly.

"We've gotta got him out before Dad finds him!" Sam exclaims. Dean rubs his chest and gives his brother a look.

"Thought he was staying with Bobby?"

"Have you seen how much Gabe sheds? Cleaning, Dean! Cleaning!"

Dean rolls his eyes and gropes around for a tissue. Gabe bats around at something on the floor. It feels like there's a ball of lead in Dean's stomach, watching Gabe jump up and down and pounce on the old pizza crust.

"You remember this was your idea, right?"

Sam picks up Gabe, who starts rumbling even louder.

"Yeah," he looks down at the rumbling cat, pursing his lips, "I know."

Sam leaves with Gabe. Dean stands up, wiping the cat fur off his boxers and cursing. The front door squeaks open and Gabe whines a loud, drawn-out meow. The door squeaks closed. Dean grabs his phone off the floor: he's got a text from Cas wishing him a happy holiday, and one from Jace, asking if their plans are still on. He replies to both. Walking out to the kitchen, he doesn't bother to put a shirt on. Sam is sitting at the kitchen table, glancing at the door every so often.

"Buck up," Dean ruffles Sam's hair as he walks past. "He can come back after Thanksgiving." Sam makes a non-committal noise, but he tears his eyes away from the door.

"If he lasts. I heard it was gonna storm again." Sam's voice goes up a few pitches.

The faded magnet on the fridge is from a field trip one of the boys took a few years ago. Maybe Dean stole it from a museum, he can't remember. Beneath the magnet, clinging to it for dear life, is a grocery list written mostly in Sam's looping handwriting. It takes Dean throwing away four pens before he finds one that works, and adds _cat-friendly food_ at the bottom.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean puts his hands down on the table and leans on them. His spine pops pleasantly. "You wanna play a round of poker?" Sam's grin could split his face in two.

"Sure, but when I win you gotta, um, clean my room for a week!"

"Fine, but when _I_ win, you're gonna let me cook dinner for a week."

"You hate cooking."

"Not the point, Samantha."

They spit shake on it. Sam wins.

 

Sam is in charge of preparing the chicken, while Dean is in charge of napping. Some birds twitter around outside the back window, rousing Dean from his sleep. He tosses off the blanket that he doesn't remember falling asleep under. There's a noticeable lack of orange fur on the blanket, as well as everywhere else. Dean's foot hits the coffee table when he swings it to stand up, coins spilling everywhere.

"Fuck," Dean curses. Sam's by his side a few moments later, helping pick up.

"Remind me again why we used coins instead of actual poker chips?"

""Cause we're fuckin' poor."

"Whatever, Dean." Once the coins are put back in their respective piles, Sam heads back to the kitchen. Dean rubs the sleep from his eyes.

In the kitchen, Sam is busied away with chopping lettuce and tossing it into a bowl. There's a mess of vegetables across the rest of the counter; Dean pops a tomato in his mouth, promptly spitting it back out.

"Freakin' rabbit food." He mutters. Sam snorts.

"If you're not gonna eat it, at least wash it off." Sam lectures. Dean drops the tomato back into the salad bowl anyway. His brother plucks it back out and tosses it in the trash.

"Seriously, Dean?" Sam rolls his eyes. "Don't act like such a caveman when Jess gets here--" Dean perks up, swivelling his body to face Sam better.

"Jess is coming over?" He raises his eyebrows, "And when were you going to tell me, young man?" He crosses his arms across his chest.

"She'll be here after we eat," Sam says, shaking the salad bowl in front of Dean, "so get to it!"

After Dean actually starts helping out, it doesn't take long for them to get their lunch all set. Chicken, salad, and some microwaved mashed potatoes all set in a lopsided triangle on the table. The boys are still in their pajamas. Sam decides to dress up the kitchen a bit, digging an old tablecloth out of the closet and smoothing it out.

"Hey Sammy," Dean starts through a mouthful of chicken, "you remember that Thanksgiving out in Michigan?" Sam chews his salad thoughtfully. They don't do Thanksgiving too often, so it's never hard to keep track of when and where they had been. Garden City, Michigan is the home of their dad's friend, Pamela Barnes. She was never a fan of kids, though, so when they went for a visit, Sam and Dean were stuck back in the motel room.

"Michigan was Spaghetti-Os in the motel room, right?"

"Yeah, and poptarts." Dean raises his plastic cup. "Here's to a slightly better meal." They clink plastic across the table. Sam takes a sip and swallows.

"You know," he's got a grin that makes Dean want to strangle him, "I really should have my room cleaned before Jess gets here."

"Oh, fuck you."

Sam's room has a bookshelf pushed up under the windowsill, in the same place Dean has a stack of beer cans and an old pair of jeans. Dean tosses some books up onto the bed, straightening up the rest of the books that are spilling off the shelf. _Kid hardly needs his room cleaned,_ Dean thinks. Really, deep down he knows that the kid just wants to fuck with him. He sighs. Picks _The Outsiders_ up off the floor, skimming the back cover.

The doorbell buzzes through the whole house. Not that there's much house for it to go through. Someone scrambles up to the door, and Dean feels a rush of cold air creep through the walls. He ducks out into the living room. Trailing behind Sam is a girl with a mop of curly blonde hair and a mole over one eyebrow.

"Hey, Dean." She waves, smiling politely.

"How've you been, kiddo?" Dean asks, grinning wide at Sam more than Jess. Sam clears his throat and pushes his glasses up. "No, no, it's fine. I'll just go back to being a housewife." He leaves the pair in the kitchen. Instead of going back to Sam's room, he goes to his own and flops down on his bed like he hasn't seen it in years.

Charlie's letter, he's in the process of replying to, crinkles when he lays on it. Cursing, he sits back up and smooths the pages out. His reply is nearly three pages front and back of his scrawled handwriting. He sets the letter and the reply off to the side, grabbing his phone instead. A call incoming, from Jace.

"Hey Dean," she nearly purrs into the receiver, "So, I was thinking..."

It doesn't take much for Dean to grab his keys off the counter and skip out.

The back seat of the Impala gets filled with a smokey haze, but by the time Dean notices, he's beyond caring. The edges of his vision blur until all he can focus on is Jace in front of him, her chest tattoo shining against her light skin. Everything slowly starts to feel awesome. The leather seat feels sticky and smooth at the same time, and Jace's dyed-orange hair shimmers in the late-afternoon sun.

God, everything feels good. Dean's teeth start to buzz when he passes the bowl over to Jace, who takes a long inhale, blowing a smoke ring up to the ceiling.

"Awesome," Dean says with a sigh. The next puff of smoke she breathes directly into his mouth, their lips barely grazing. She rests a hand on his thigh.

"You, me, Mary Jane. We gonna do this?" She asks, not moving her hand. To answer, Dean kisses her.

Clothes disappear faster than smoke. Jace's skin feels warm and slick, and Dean wants to taste the ink of her tattoo. He can feel the air thrumming and his own heart beating in his chest. There's a row of condoms in the back seat that Jace opens with her teeth. If Dean wasn't hard before, he is now.

They end up with all the windows fogged, smelling more like sweat and come than weed. Dean's arm is slung around Jace's waist. He can feel every inch of where their bodies touch. She kisses lightly at his neck.

"Hmm," she sighs contentedly. Her chest rumbles and Dean feels it through his stomach. "Feel like I'm floating." As soon as she says it, he feels it too: weightless. "Fucking amazing."

Dean shuts his eyes. Jace is heavy on top of him, but he doesn't care. Everything feels _awesome._

Putting clothes back on takes considerably longer than taking them off. Or it doesn't. Dean isn't too sure, honestly. His clothes feel heavy on his body, like they're tethering him to the seat.

"Well," Dean starts, getting the key in the ignition and feeling the engine roll under him. "I know what I'm thankful for."

"Your two favorite ladies." Dean laughs.

The exit to the parking lot seems a lot farther away than Dean thinks it should be. He stares at one of the white paint lines, not really looking at it.

"Dean, hey," Jace waves a hand in front of him. "You okay? Want me to drive?"

"Huh? Yeah, no, I'm fine," he insists. He drives.

Jace's mom lives right down the road from Dean's trailer park, in a white townhouse. Dean shakes his head and blinks a few times to get back into it. When they roll up to the townhouse, Jace kisses him, the taste of chapstick and marijuana still thick on her lips.

"Let's do this again some time."

"Fuck yeah." And she's gone out the door.

Dean tosses the used condom out the window as he leaves the neighborhood. Some stray dog goes up and sniffs it, before whining and lifting his leg.

It's nearly ten minutes into the drive that Dean realizes he turned the wrong way coming out.

"Fuck." He's not sure if he cursed out loud or not. _Milton Lane_ the next street sign reads. _Oh, this is close to Cas' house._ He turns onto the street without thinking. The houses in Cas' neighborhood are a lot larger than Dean's used to. Even Bobby's place is small compared to this part of town. _Fuckin' rich people._ The trees are tall, too. For a moment, they look like they're bending inward, like going through a tunnel. A tunnel of tall trees and large houses.

At the end of the street, there's a stop sign with someone waiting at it. The closer Dean gets, the more he stares.

"Cas!" Dean calls, rolling down the passenger side window. Cas turns to him, startled like a deer in headlights.

"Hello, Dean." Dean puts the car in park. _Oh, fuck._ Dean thinks as he inhales. The car is still strong with the smell of sex. Dean leans over and pops the door open anyway, hoping Cas won't notice. The rush of cold air is pleasant.

"What are you doing out here?" Cas asks.

"I--" Dean stops. "I was just out for a drive." He takes a look down the street; they're a good mile away from the Novak's house. "Why aren't you with your mom? I figure she'd be all about spendin' time with her 'little angel'." Cas tenses.

"Well," he clears his throat. Dean puts the car in drive, trying to focus on the road and now how deep Cas' voice is. "We usually have Thanksgiving with our pastor, but he was unavailable, and my mother has to work tonight." There's a dirt road ahead that Cas tells him to turn onto. The trees glow gold in the late afternoon sun.

"Who's your pastor? Wait-- did you go to church with Bobby?"

"Mister Singer? Yes, for a time."

"No way, dude, shit, he's my uncle."

"He never mentioned--"

"Okay, pseudo-uncle, sue me."

"I did not know that. That's fascinating."

"Who are you, Spock?"

"Excuse me?"

The end of the road comes up with a clearing overlooking the light of the city miles away. Even in the fading sunlight, Dean can see the skyscrapers silhouetted, against the horizon.

"Forget it." He kills the engine, leaning back in his seat. "Ain't you cold?" he asks, gesturing to Cas' single-layer trenchcoat. Dean shrugs his own jacket off and hands it to Cas, who just looks at him. "Shit!" Dean exclaims. Cas jumps. "Wow, fuck, I'm sorry Cas, I totally kidnapped you just now. The fuck am I doing, you were probably busy doing--" he looks at Cas again, who's putting Dean's jacket on under his coat. "Whatever you were doing."

"Unless I am mistaken, we just went over this. I was," Cas sighs, "spending time by myself."

"Well now I'm here," Dean says. he leans his seat back so it touches the back seat and puts his hands behind his head. "So we can spend time by ourselves together." Cas nods. Smiles.

"I would enjoy that."

Silence creeps into the car and Dean looks over to Cas, watching how the shadows make the lines on his face deeper. His eyes look older than they should. Cas stares out through the windsheild, blue eyes glittering. _Why can't I stop staring, shit?_

"Hey, man, I was meaning to say-- about your poem," Dean stumbles out. Cas tilts his head. "The one I sorta read at the library that day. I didn't mean to, it was just-- whatever. Anyway, I wanted to say that I get it. Like, all those feelings and shit you don't think about during the day, but then when you're layin' in bed and it all comes back t'you, like, shit..." _When did I get so talkative?_

"Dean..." Cas' voice is gentle and it strikes Dean in the center of his chest.

"Sorry, Cas, I'm not--" he gestures vaguely in front of him. "M'not all here tonight."

"It's quite alright."

Only a handful of stars can be seen through all the city lights. Laying back in his seat, Dean looks out the side window. Beside him, he feels Cas move his seat back and do the same, until they're both leaning back and looking at the stars.

"Man, I miss bein' out in the country," Dean says after a long few minutes of silence. "Charlie's hometown in Lawrence, you can go anywhere, and I mean anywhere, look up and see so many stars. It's ridiculous."

Dean can hear Cas breath out slowly.

"My mother took me to Italy one year when I was young. I found a spot one morning during sunrise, and it looked as if the whole world were aflame. I could not find that spot again, even the very next day."

"Yeah, yeah I get you."

"Dean," Cas looks over to Dean, the shadows on his face heavy. "Have you ever heard of--"

Dean's phone rings out, loud and ripping against the quiet.

"Dean," Sam sounds frantic. "Where are you?"

"Shit, I'm with Cas. What's up?"

"Dad's gonna be home soon."

"Though he was with Bobby?"

"Guess not."

"Shit." Dean hangs up. "I gotta get home, Cas." Cas' face falls.

"Very well."

"What did you wanna say?"

"It is nothing." Castiel sits up.

Dean nearly floors it back to Cas' house. He apologizes a couple times without quite being sure of what he's saying. Castiel insists that he understands.

"Thank you, Dean." Cas says as he opens the door. "This has been an experience."

Unsure of what to say, Dean just watches him walk up the steps into his house.

He doesn't realize how cold he is until he's driving down the street without his jacket.


	8. Interlude One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATED 29 JULY 2014

Sam seriously considers what kind of supernatural monster his brother can be, only taking less than ten minutes every morning to get ready. _Okay,_ Sam guesses, _he's only got half the amount of hair I do. But still!_ Sam manages to put on the heaviest scarf he owns and zip up his jacket by the time Dean stumbles out of his bedroom, one arm through a shirt sleeve.

"How have you not died yet?" Sam asks, shaking his head at his brother. Dean just rolls his eyes and finishes putting on his shirt.

Outside, the cold makes Sam's glasses fog up. He inhales sharply, tucking half his face under his scarf to keep it from the wind. _At least the Impala heats up fast_.

"Could you be any more of a baby?" Dean chides, getting into the car.

"I'm sorry, I forgot your meat for brains is what keeps you warm."

"That's harsh, Sammy. What's eatin' you?"

The Legos in the heater rattle around as Dean speeds off down the road. Sam keeps rubbing his hands together, huffing. The engine makes a scraping sound when Dean rounds a corner a little too fast.

"Aw, come on baby," Dean coaxes the car, "don't be like that."

 _Normal people's cars don't make that noise._ Sam turns his eyes away from the road, glaring at the green army man stuck in the ashtray. _I've never heard Mrs. Tran's car do that._ The army man continues to point crookedly at the back window.

"That reminds me," Sam looks up, "are we gonna get a tree this year?"

"What? What for?"

"Christmas, duh. Everyone else gets one." _Everyone normal gets one._

Dean sighs. "Your friend Jake doesn't."

"Jake's Jewish."

"Whatever, Sammy. But I'll see if Ash knows where to get any trees."

It's better than nothing, he supposes.

Sam's school is all but empty when Dean turns into the parking lot. Sam tucks his scarf up again, pushing is glasses up to his forehead for the time being. Dean waits until Sam is by the front steps to drive away. The concrete sends shivers up through Sam's many layers of clothing. He takes a seat, sighing, not wanting to risk his hands being frozen off in order to read.

Luckily, it's only a handful of minutes after Dean leaves that another car pulls up and Sam's friend, Kevin Tran, steps out. Kevin's only jacket is a thin, red hoodie. They wave to each other, Sam patting the step beside him.

"I can't believe my mother sometimes," Kevin gripes as he sits down. He gives Mama Tran his usual four-finger wave as she leaves the parking lot; long before Sam came to town, Kevin lost his pinky finger in an accident. Sam never knew quite what happened, just that Kevin didn't like talking about his nub.

"What'd she do this time?" As much as it seemed to Sam that the Trans got along, Kevin always came to him with other ideas. Sam had been surprised, the first time Kevin complained about his mom it didn't involve the words 'drunk' or 'shouting' or 'seriously, what the fuck is wrong with her'.

"She was mad at me because I didn't do well on that math test, she keeps saying I'm not going to get into Yale now. Claims she 'wants me to have the best future', like, she knows I'm fourteen, right?" Kevin complains, fishing a bag of pretzels out of his backpack.

"Aren't you taking college classes at Talbot Community, though?"

"That's my point exactly!" Kevin huffs. He offers Sam a pretzel, who takes one reluctantly.

"You're ridiculous, Kev." Kevin jostles him.

"Having a lover's spat, are we?" A voice calls from across the parking lot. Sam looks out to see a tall boy sauntering across the parking lot: one of his other friends, Brady, backpack slung over his shoulder. He reminds Sam of Dean in that way.

"Where's Jake?" Kevin asks, making room for Brady on the steps. Jake usually gets a ride with Brady in the mornings. Sam's knees brush against Kevin's back. Feeling the thin fabric of Kevin's jacket through his jeans, Sam wonders how on earth the boy isn't at least shivering by now.

"He caught the flu or something," Brady answers, dropping his bags. "Got it from his sister. I swear, the whole Talley family could still catch the Black Plague." Brady rubs the back of his neck with his gloved hand.

"We're not gonna see him until after New Year's, at this rate." Sam says.

"Yeah, but at least we can talk to Jess now," Brady teases, eyes lighting up. Sam cocks an eyebrow at him. He holds up a hand: between his two fingers is Sam's phone.

Sam leaps up, but Brady is already darting across the parking lot. He barely has time to apologize to Kevin before scrambling after him. The cold whips against his exposed skin, but he's determined.

"Oh Jess," Brady mocks, clicking away at the keyboard, "I love you _so_ much. I had The Talk with Dean so now I kn--" Sam slams into him and they land with a thud. The phone clatters away. The boys grapple for a few moments, Sam pinning Brady by the shoulders to the blacktop. "Uncle, uncle." Brady sounds more annoyed than defeated. Sam lets up anyway, scooping his phone up. Brady was actually typing the message out; Sam's glad he caught him.

"Asshole." Sam wipes his hands on his jeans before offering it to his friend.

"Come on, guys, get out of the road," Kevin calls from over on the steps. Sam jogs back to his friend, starting to feel the cold settling into his bones.

"Seriously, Kev, how are you not freezing?" Sam finally asks.

"I'm spiting my mother." Before Sam can ask what on earth that means, the school bell chimes seven times. The door behind Sam unlocks automatically with a click. "Oh, thank God." Kevin pushes past Sam and into the warm building. Sam glances back to the parking lot just in time to see a bus pull up to the side of the building.

Inside, Sam flexes him fingers, eternally grateful for the warmth. His friends and him all cluster by the art room. Sam pauses to admire all the artwork tacked up on the wall outside the room; Jess' name is on at least two. The art room itself smells like paint and clay, among a dozen other scents Sam doesn't know enough about to identify.

Jess joins the group a minute later, her sweatshirt tied around her waist and a big red X taped over the inside of her elbow.

"Is your elbow marked for demolition?" Brady asks her, pointing. She rolls her eyes.

"No, stupid, there was a blood drive."

"This early in the morning?"

Sam checks his watch; it's barely eight o'clock.

"The drive started at six. They wanted an early start, you know how hospitals are always short on blood."

"Literally no one besides you and maybe Freak Boy, I mean, Sam, knows that." Brady teases.

"Brady!" Jess scolds, but Sam waves her off. That's just who Brady is.

The four putz around for a while Sam bouncing up on his toes to get his blood circulating again. Not that he really needed to, Jess made his heart pound more than enough, but she didn't need to know that just yet.

When the start-of-class bell rings, Kevin reminds Sam that he's having dinner with him and his mother on Friday night, before he skips off to the orchestra room. Jess gives the other two boys hugs before going into the art room. Sam and Brady start off down to the locker rooms for their first class, gym.

"Jess sure is somethin', isn't she?" Brady comments, pulling the locker room door open.

"Sure is," Sam agreed, feeling his heart still fluttering.

"You're somethin', too, don't worry," Brady reassures him.

The locker room is already alive with chatter and the chocking stench of Axe body spray. Sam's eyes water when he first walks in. He rubs them until he sees colors behind his eyelids.

Their teacher sits in his office, shuffling some papers around his desk. A bright orange whistle hangs around his neck. His real name is Azazel Burgh, but everyone calls him Ice Burgh behind his back. Sam's never heard a kid say it to his face, but he can only imagine that a gruesome death would befall them.

Sam changes quickly, trudging out the door behind Brady. The girls are already ready, standing in a gaggle. The boys stand in a haphazard line, some stretching halfheartedly. One kid does jumping jacks. Brady tries to touch his toes.

Ice's whistle screeches through the nearly empty gym floor.

"Listen up, ladies," Ice barks at the boys. "Today we'll be running the mile." A collective groan ripples across the crowd. The kid doing jumping jacks stops abruptly.

"Outside?" Brady asks, stretching one arm behind his head.

"Yes, Mister Johnson, outside."

"Come on, Ice, it's freezing outside!" Brady exclaims, before a look of horror crosses his face.

"Excuse me?" Despite being a rather short man, Ice has a large presence when he wants to. Brady gulps.

"I mean, Mr. Burgh, it just seems, uh," Brady stutters, before looking down at his shoes.

"How formal of you. Maybe you'd like to run an extra mile, just for that?" Brady's eyes don't come up off the floor. He mumbles something even Sam can barely hear. "Excuse me?" Ice echoes.

"Yes, sir."

Ice blows his whistle again, a sharp blast in Sam's ears.

"They don't call him Ice Burgh for nothing." Sam mutters to his friend as they head out the back door.

Sam manages to keep his pace with Brady for the first lap, until Brady falls behind to save his energy. Sam's hands turn bright red before he's halfway done, but he keeps going. Miraculously, he manages to be one of the first to finish the run. Ice congratulates him with a warm water bottle that feels like liquid gold on the way down Sam's throat.

Much to his discomfort, his long hair sticks to the back of his neck despite the cold. A girl offers him a hair tie, and he finishes his hair off in a short ponytail. It's not long before the cold sets in, so Sam and a small handful of other kids do jumping jacks to keep warm.

Brady isn't the last to finish the run, despite having to go twice as far. Once Brady finishes and can breathe again, he wolf-whistles Sam's ponytail; the two boys chit chat idly, both praying to go back inside soon. _I never thought I'd miss the smell of Axe so much._ Sam doesn't realize how numb he actually is until he's back in the sticky heat of the gymnasium.

"There's got to be some kind of health code violation against being outside when it's so cold," Brady is griping to Sam on the way to their next class.

"I know, seriously."

Sam's math class is up on the second floor, so he bids Brady goodbye and goes up. His legs still ache from the run, and he's caught panting by the time he's at the classroom door.

Jess is already inside, waving him over to a seat at the back of the room.

"Oh boy, you reek!" Jess says. Sam's face heats up and he leans away, tugging on his shirt collar. "Is that all Axe?"

"Unfortunately so."

"You know what's weird?" Jess looks at him with wide eyes, not waiting for an answer. "Boys! I swear, I'll never understand boys!"

"Me neither." Sam nods a little too enthusiastically. Jess giggles.

More kids file in at the front of the room. M. Balter pulls up their PowerPoint entitled _Unit III: Proofs_. Sam squints at the board. He thinks he remembers Dean complaining about the unit a couple of years ago.

"Hey Sam." Jess' voice is quiet. She leans closer to him and Sam's heart starts to beat faster. There's an edge in her tone. "You know you're not a freak, right?"

Whatever Sam thought Jess was going to say is gone now. He has to stop for a second.

"What? Where did that come from?" Sam asks, a little bewildered. Jess purses her lips.

"Brady this morning. He just, why does he have to _do_ that?"

"That's just Brady being Brady. He's a dick, yeah, but I live with it. It's like Dean--"

"And that's another thing!" Jess starts, but Sam puts a hand on her arm.

"Jess."

"Ugh!" She rolls her eyes. "Boys!" Jess turns back to the front board.

Sam pays attention most of class, until his phone buzzes in his pocket.

hey sammy jo is comin ovr after school + she already called shotgun so ur fucked

No library with Cas today?

nah he has a drs appt n cant make it

He has those a lot it seems like, is he ok?

im sure hes fine, dnt worry abt it kid

Okay, sure...

Jo says we shud get pizza for dinner r u in?

You kno it!


	9. Yes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED 1 AUGUST 2014
> 
> Chapter contains mentions of smoking (cigarettes), terminal disease, and other related themes.

The old radio on Castiel's desk crackles out a weather report every ten minutes exactly. It's taken Castiel four weather reports to choose his clothes out, fold them, and then nervously put them back in the wardrobe.

 _A one hundred percent chance of snow starting later tonight and ending tomorrow evening at the earliest_ The radio announces for the fifth time.

The next shirt Castiel picks up is a blue and brown sweater vest that's always been a little too big for him. He folds it anyway and places it on top of his bag. His hands shake and his stomach cramps and squeezes. He coughs heavily.

 _There is no reason for you to be so nervous,_ Castiel tells himself, breathing in all the way down to the bottom of his lungs and back out. His stomach pangs again, and with a jolt, he realizes it isn't only nerves. He slides his hands up and down the lapels of his coat, wringing his hands.

The wardrobe door is still open. Castiel goes over and shuts it. Opens it. Pulls out a crisp, white shirt. Puts it back. Pulls out a different shirt, a blue one. Puts it back and pulls the white shirt out again. He stares at the shirt close enough to count the individual threads. Sighs. The wardrobe closes with a click when Castiel finally shuts it. The tug in Castiel's gut grows stronger.

Castiel's bag has two shirts and a pair of jeans in it already. It takes everything in Castiel not to dump it all out again. His hands feel tense, so he wrings them out again. Moving to make sure everything fits in his back, his foot kicks a box under the bed.

His blood goes cold.

He stares at the bottom of the bed, at the shadowy spot that his foot kicked, for a long, tense moment. He can feel his heart beat in his stomach. The radio serenades him with the upbeat pounding of Ke$ha. He doesn't hear it, only the sound of the blood pulsing in his ears.

 _That is a bad idea, Castiel. You shouldn't even be thinking such things._ But his stomach cramps again, painfully, until he has to clutch at it through his shirt. _Fine. Fine._ He drops to his knees, reaching under the bed. He gropes around, finding a cardboard box and pulling it out into the light. _Castiel's Catacombs_ the box reads in messy Sharpie. Inside the box are half a dozen photographs, all turned so the glossy backs face up. But Castiel pays them no heed, going straight for the carton of cigarettes in the corner. It's a full carton, until Castiel slides one between his fingers.

There's a blue lighter in the box, buried beneath an envelope. _Castiel was here_ , also in Sharpie, shines on the outside of the lighter. Castiel flicks it a couple of times, watching the flame splutter to life. The cigarette between his middle two fingers feels heavy. He lights it. The smoke hits his lungs, and they're both warmed and cooled at the same time. The back of his tongue stings, a warm and familiar sensation. All the tension in his stomach melts away. Smoke curls up to the ceiling; Castiel watches it drift lazily closer to the fan before disappearing. Ashes fall onto his coat and smolders orange before Cas wipes it away. It leaves a black streak near the pocket.

After a few more puffs, Castiel crushes the cigarette out against his coat pocket. He's a little dizzy when he stands up, his head swimming pleasantly with smoke. His phone buzzes on his desk, over the radio static.

Hey cas where are you?

I will be there shortly.

Castiel stumbles after jumping through the trap door; he has to freeze to collect himself before carrying on. It isn't until he gets to the bathroom near the stairs that he notices just how acrid the cigarette made him smell. He tries not to look at himself in the mirror, grabbing both his red and blue inhalers and a couple of his pill bottles out of the medicine cabinet. But he pauses, just before he walks out the door. The railing next to the toilet gleams in the florescent light. Castiel's hands shake. He wonders what Dean would think.

Adra is waiting patiently for Castiel when he finally makes it down to the front door. He grits his teeth, hoping the sweet Christmas pine and holly can cover the tobacco scent rolling off him. But the way her nose crinkles tells him otherwise. They don't say a word until they're in the car.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Adra asks as she turns out of the neighborhood.

 _Yes._ "No."

Adra sighs. "I would like to meet these Winchesters before you spend the night with them."

Something flares up in Cas' stomach. "They are good people," he assures her, "Dean is a good person." Adra glances at him, her expression tight. He keeps looking at the road ahead.

"I do believe you. But I-- I worry about you, Castiel."

Silence hangs over them for the rest of the ride. When they pull up to Dean's trailer, Adra steps out as well. The cold nips at Cas, the fire in his belly the only thing keeping him warm.

"I'm sorry." Castiel mutters just before they reach the door. Adra stiffens. Cas rings the doorbell.

There are three things that Castiel notices when the door swings open. The first is that it's just begun to snow: a few tiny flakes are sprinkling down between him and Dean. Second, Dean has a small red Santa hat sliding off his head. And third, Castiel's heart is hammering so hard in his chest he can almost hear it.

Dean smiles broadly at Cas, faltering a little when he notices Adra standing next to him.

"Hello, Dean." Cas says. "This is my mother, Adra. Adra, this is Dean." Dean gives Adra a nod, holding out his hand.

"It's nice to meet you, Miss Novak." They shake hands. Castiel's heart pounds harder.

"Enchanté." Adra gives her best smile, letting her hand drop. She turns back to Castiel. "I hope I'm leaving you in good hands."

"Don't worry about him, Miss Novak, we've got it covered." Dean assures her, giving a salute. To Cas' surprise, Adra smiles.

"Very well." She turns to go. Dean gives Cas a thumbs up and ushers him in to the house.

"Cas is here!" Dean shouts into the house. Castiel leaves his shoes by the door, settling himself in comfortably. He follows Dean in to the kitchen. There are a few strings of lights hung up around the room and over the refrigerator, twinkling like the stars. Over in the living room, a flimsy but very real Christmas tree stands in the corner. A couple of decorations hang off of it precariously, but for the most part it is bare. Sam is lying on the living room couch, holding _A Christmas Carol_ up above him. He puts the book down to smile at Cas.

"Hey Cas! Merry Christmas!" Castiel doesn't want to point out that Christmas isn't for another couple of days, so he simply smiles back. Without warning, Dean takes Cas' messenger bag out of his hand and throws it down on the couch right where Sam is laying. Sam coils inward with an _oof_. The Santa hat slides down over Dean's ears. Castiel finds him oddly mesmerising with the fluffy white halo around his head. The bell on the end of the hat jingles. Dean pushes the hat back up, revealing an unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear that Cas hadn't noticed before.

A hundred different emotions swarm Castiel's chest, making his throat feel suddenly very small. Dean doesn't seem to notice, gesturing around the rest of the house broadly.

"Make yourself at home, Cas." Dean offers. But Cas can't tear his gaze away from Dean's face, the way the muscles in his jaw work when he smiles, and of course, the cigarette resting behind his ear.

Cas only looks away when Sam stands up, wearing what can only be described as a horridly ugly sweater: there are a half a dozen reindeer prancing around on the torso, above a stitched _Merry Christmas_ and a row of blocky flowers. There are even tiny green and red lights sewn in around the reindeer. Sam crosses his arms over his chest.

"It's a tradition, I swear!" He defends. Dean laughs lightly.

"It's very... Unique." Castiel manages, looking Sam up and down. The sweater swims on him, like it was made for an adult rather than a young teenager.

"Hey, Dean wore it last year!" Sam defends again, glaring at his brother, who's laughter is growing. Cas turns his attention back to the older boy, who's now covering is mouth to hide his chuckling.

"This year's yer turn, Sammy," Dean barely gets out through his howls of laughter. Sam rolls his eyes hard.

"I don't see why this brings you so much joy. Why can't Castiel wear it, since he's gonna be here?"

And all at once, the attention is on Castiel. He stands still with his hands at his side while both pairs of eyes in the room appraise him. Cas' heart lurches in his throat when he meets Dean's eyes.

"Cas, you wanna be part of our ugly sweater tradition?" There's something different about Dean's voice, something soft. He has a hopeful smile playing at his lips.

"Of course." Castiel answers without thinking about it. With a grateful huff, Sam strips off the offending sweater and hands it to Cas. Cas looks around for a minute before heading in to the closest bedroom, Dean's. The walls are covered in posters and the floor is covered in junk. Cas even forgets how badly he smells of tobacco when he sniffs, his nose assaulted with the scent of cheap beer and rotting food.

The Winchester's sweater, although tacky, is surprisingly comfortable. It bundles around Cas' hips and covers most of his hand, sliding easily under his coat.

Cas hears shuffling and the occasional clinking of glasses outside the door, so he pushes it open; outside in the living room, the Winchester boys are both carrying boxes labeled _Christmas decorations_. Sam slides his on to the coffee table, while Dean drops his in front of the television with a loud clang.

"Since it's Christmas Eve Eve, and you're our guest, you can help us decorate the tree." Dean tells him, taking a beaten up CD case out of one box.

"Eve Eve?" Castiel puzzles, "Isn't that redundant?"

"It's the eve before Christmas Eve! So, it's Christmas Eve Eve, get it?" Dean explains. _No,_ Castiel thinks _I do not_. But he lets it go anyway. Dean pops his CD into the DVD player; it starts playing a generic carol.

There is a bright flash behind Castiel; he turns to see Sam holding a camera and smiling. Sam gestures to Dean and Cas.

"Get in a picture together! I want to document this!" He tells them. Castiel shuffles his feet but does not move. Underneath his sweater feels warmer than it should, not just because of the broken heater.

"I," Castiel starts, his chest feeling tight, "I do not think that is the best idea." Dean steps up beside him, looking from Castiel to his Sam and back.

"Sammy, come on," Dean sighs, readjusting his Santa hat and cigarette. "Put that thing away." Castiel looks down, not able to stand the pout on Sam's face. He picks at a spot of ash on his coat. The chorus of Silent Night seems to drag on forever.

"I could be persuaded otherwise." Castiel says finally, still looking at his feet. When he looks up, Sam's smile shines like all the lights strung up around the trailer. it's that smile that convinces Castiel to be in a dozen more photos while they unpack. At some point, Sam switches his camera over to video mode and balances it on the back of the couch.

Most of the boxes are full of tangled strings of lights, or more Christmas-themed clothing that hasn't been touched in years. Everything smells like pine and cinnamon when removed from the boxes. Dean hums while he unpacks, trying to untangle the lights enough to find the plug end. The next box that Sam opens contains ornaments, most handmade with Sam or Dean's stuck names on them in glitter glue.

Sam goes to hang some of the ornaments on the fridge. Castiel is inspecting a tiny house made from popsicle sticks. Dean finishes putting a row of tinsel over the television, getting tiny silver fibres all over the wood floor. That's when he glances over to his brother and pulls the cigarette from behind his ear. Castiel watches him; he is trying to make his movements subtle, but it's obvious once he flicks his lighter that he doesn't care. Smoke wisps curl out of Dean's mouth slowly, like they don't want to leave. Dean raises his eyebrows at Cas and takes another drag. Castiel is not sure which he wants more: the cigarette, or the boy smoking it.

He gets neither, standing up and walking over to the kitchen, his inhaler bumping against his leg. Sam is hanging tiny Christmas trees on the drawer handles.

"Did you and Dean make these?" Castiel asks, inspecting the trees for a name.

"Nah, we bought them at this little shop..." Sam fades out before he can finish his sentence. There's a loud crackling coming from behind him.

"Shit!" They hear Dean exclaim. Castiel whips around to see the top half of the Christmas tree in flames, smoke billowing up to the low ceiling. Castiel coughs, the air in the trailer growing thick.

"Shit!" Sam echoes, darting off to a back room. Castiel coughs harder the more smoke fills the room. Vaguely, he registers Dean trying to put the fire out with his jacket. Castiel's throat is a pinhole. He darts out the front door.

The railing catches him, leaving tiny splinters in his palms as he grips it. Smoke follows Cas out of the house, turning the already dark sky a shade blacker. His hands freeze painfully against the snow-covered wood. He gasps in a few lungfuls of cold, smokeless air. Leaning over a little further, he shakes a few snow flurries out of his hair. He hears shouting coming from inside the house.

"What the hell happened?" It's Sam's voice. There's some spluttering followed by the smooth _shhhht_ of a fire extinguisher. The crackling of the flame stops. Cas thinks he catches Dean chuckle, but something stops him.

"I didn't-- It was an accident, Sammy, I didn't mean to--"

"Didn't mean to! Right, yeah, like I haven't heard that one before."

"Sammy..."

"No, Dean, you know what? Just leave it." Sam huffs, followed by a door slam that rattles the whole house.

Castiel continues to stand on the front porch, holding himself at arms length from the railing. The cold makes the sweat on his neck stick to him. His heart still thrums in his chest, although less violently than before. Mucus sticks to the roof of his mouth, he spits it onto the ground, making a small circle of melted snow.

He turns around to Dean standing in the doorway, shrugging on his jacket. The Santa hat has left his head.

"Merry fuckin' Christmas." Dean murmurs. "You alright?" Cas nods. "Cool." Dean looks out to the street. "Walk with me. It'll give Sa-- everyone time to cool off."

"Of course."

The snow falls in larger flakes the more they walk. Dean manages to catch a few on his tongue. Castiel keeps his jacket open, the material of his sweater clinging to his skin like a blanket. Around the edge of Dean's neighbourhood is a sidewalk, getting layered with snow. The trees that line the sidewalk have multicolored lights on them, glittering like stars. It feels as if the world is hidden in a large bubble made from the clouds and snow. Cas' breath puffs out in front of him, thinner than the smoke. Both boys' boots crunch on the snow as they walk.

Dean stops at the base of a tree with bright blue lights.

"You know that was an accident, right, Cas?" He asks, not taking his eyes off the tree.

"My opinion on the matter is irrelevant."

"Yeah, yeah. I know." Dean sighs, watching his breath curl away from him. The pair keeps walking.

"I didn't know that you smoked."

"Yeah," Dean sighs again, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, "Bad habit, I guess. Been tryin' to quit for years." Their shoulders bump as they walk.

"I understand. It is difficult."

"And how would you know?" Dean raises an eyebrow, as if he expects Cas to be messing with him.

"I used to smoke as well." Castiel feels relief like a block of ice melting through his bloodstream, settling down at the bottom of his lungs.

"Well," Dean has to stop walking. He's quiet for a beat. "Shit. You're just full of surprises, aren't you?" Cas turns to face Dean. They're standing beneath a tall pear, sheltered just enough from the snow.

"It's been a very long time." Cas shifts uncomfortably, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. They clasp around his inhaler. "But in light of recent events it seems I'm back to my old habit." He digs his hands deeper into his pockets. It isn't until he catches Dean's mournful look that he realizes just how much sorrow he must have held in his voice. Snow clings to Dean's hair like it's meant to be there. He puts a hand on Cas' shoulder, and it's then that Cas first wants to kiss him.

Cas feels it burning on the inside of his lips, the desire to lean over and press himself against Dean's skin. His hand on Cas' shoulder is warm, so very warm, and Cas feels it all the way through his body. The thought surprises him, his heart starting to pound once again. Dean's grip on his shoulder tightens.

"You okay?" He sounds worried.

"Yes." Cas lies. Dean looks at him harder, his eyes searching Cas' face.

"No, I mean..." Dean looks away, but doesn't take his hand off of Cas' shoulder. "you miss movie nights with us most weeks 'cause you've got so many damn doctor's appointments. And now you tell me you've been smoking? What the hell, Cas, that's not something okay people _do_." He huffs. "And trust me, I know a lot about not being okay." But Dean doesn't know. He has no idea, not like this.

"Dean," Castiel takes a deep breath, thinking back to Thanksgiving night. "Have you ever heard of cystic fibrosis?" Dean's face twists, thinking.

"Uh, I think so? That's when your lungs--"

"It is a genetic disease where my lungs become clogged with mucus. And it is likely that I will die prematurely." Dean takes his hand off of Cas at last. He misses Dean's touch already.

"Way to sugar coat it, man." He tries to smile, but it fails quickly. Instead, he sighs, and starts walking again. Cas buttons up his coat, bracing himself against the cold. "What about this?"

"What about what?"

"If you quit smoking, for good, I will too."

Castiel pauses. "Yes. I would like that."

"I mean, shit's probably terrible for you anyway, right?"

"It is." Cas smiles despite the weight that's pressing in on him. A blast of wind hits them as they walk and even with the layers, they shiver.

"What do you say we head back before you become a Cas-cicle?" Dean jokes, turning around.

The snow crunches heavier under their boots on the way back, cold hitting Cas' ankles and melting on contact with his skin. His nose is stuffed, and he has to keep sniffling every minute or so. He wraps his coat up tighter. The snow is deep enough for them to leave footprints, telling a story that will soon be erased by the storm.

A few yards away from the Winchester's front porch, Dean stops.

"Hey Cas," he looks at his friend, whose heart is pattering at how close Dean is standing. "Since we're both quitting, what do you say we have one last go?" It takes Castiel a second.

"Yes, we can."

What a word, 'yes'.

Dean trudges his way up the front steps, bathed in the yellow porch light. The snow falling around him makes him glow yellow-gold. Cas follows him up until they're both standing at the front door. Everything is quiet when they stop walking. Dean steps closer to him. _Yes._ Is all Castiel can think. The taller boy fishes a carton out of his coat pocket, pulling two out. Castiel takes one. It's not as heavy in his hand this time. Dean's lighter gives him trouble, sparking and choking when he flicks it.

"Damn thing's almost out of juice. C'mere, we can light 'em together." And Dean, impossibly, gets closer, enough for the ends of their cigarettes to touch. He flicks the lighter a few more times, until the cigarettes are smoldering. Their chests nearly bump together when Dean inhales. _Yes._ Dean moves back only to blow the smoke away from Cas' face and spit over the railing. He leaves a small spot identical to the one Cas made earlier.

The cigarette itself is much less stale and bitter than the one Cas had earlier. It makes him feel full. Or maybe it's just Dean beside him that does that.

"You really hold it like that?" Dean gestures to the cigarette between Cas' middle fingers.

"Yes." Dean holds his between his first two, Cas notes.

"Cool. It's not bad, I mean, it's just different. Never seen anyone do it like that before."

"There's a first time for everything." Castiel supposes, taking a long drag.

"And a last." Dean stubs the butt of the cigarette out on the side of the house, free from the snow. His hands are red with cold.

Castiel is eternally grateful for the broken heater, filling the small trailer to the brim with warm, dry air. The boys hang their coats up by the front door, Castiel feeling shockingly bare without his long trenchcoat to cover him. Sam is busy putting a carton of eggnog back into the fridge. He stiffens when he sees Dean, but says nothing. Cas takes a look around the house, the scent of smoke lingering heavily. There's a black spot in the corner of the living room where the tree stood only an hour earlier.

Dean puts on a movie, ending the loop of outdated Christmas carols for the night. He puts in an old Charlie Brown Special, letting it roll through the advertisements while he goes and grabs the eggnog. On his way over, something falls of the couch and lands with a clatter.

"My camera!" Sam cries, rushing over.

"Has that thing been recording the whole time?" Dean wonders.

"I'll let you know once I get the batteries back in." Sam tells him.

Cas wanders over and sits on the couch, Sam joining him on the left. Dean comes over a minute later, eggnog in one hand and whiskey in the other, and squishes in between them. Sam turns the camera towards the trio, telling them to say cheese. Cas leans closer to Dean to try and get in the shot. The light smell of sweat and something purely _Dean_ washes over Castiel. His lips curve into a smile, leaning every-so-slightly closer to his friend. Sam snaps the photo. Dean leans back into the couch, putting his arms around the two boys, keeping them close.

Castiel doesn't pay much attention to the movie; he's seen it a couple of times now, anyway. Instead, he gazes out the half-drawn window, at the snow that's now coming down in a thick sheet of white.

"I should call Bobby," Dean comments, moving his hand off of Sam's shoulder to dig his phone out. He doesn't bother to pause the movie. "Gotta find out what Dad's doing about this storm."

"Wouldn't it make more sense to call your father?" Cas asks.

"John never answers." Sam cuts in, scowling.

"Hey," Dean's tone is warning. He puts the phone up to his ear. Faintly, Castiel hears the dial tone, and then a ring. He doesn't listen for very long, though, since his own phone is ringing in his pocket.

Castiel: the weather report says that this storm is going to last at least until tomorrow evening. I think it would be safest if you stayed with the Winchesters. I know you were having... Trouble this evening, do you think you have enough medicine? - Adra

Yes, I packed extra in case this problem would arise. I will be fine here, thank you.

He doesn't type _I'm sorry_ like he wants to.

It takes all of an hour for Sam to fall asleep, slumping down on to Dean like a rag doll. Carefully, the two lucid boys take Sam's glasses off. Dean leads Sam back to his bedroom, the younger brother stumbling along behind. Cas' stomach twists uncomfortable; he tries to rub his eyes like he's tired, but they spring back open. The clock reads 12:07 AM.

"What a baby." Dean snorts, although he, too starts to yawn. He plops back down on the couch, gesturing for Cas to come join him.

Sure enough, it's only a handful of minutes later when Dean's head falls onto Cas' shoulder. His slow, even breaths and occasional snore are surprisingly comfortable to Cas. Dean's short hair tickles at Cas' bare neck. Slowly, as not to wake him, Cas shimmies away from Dean. He doesn't realize he was barely breathing until he steps over to where the Christmas tree was, and sucks in a good, strong breath. Ashes climb into his mouth.

Cas is aware of Dean's presence on the couch, with his now more prominent snoring and occasional shift in position. He shuts his eyes and tries to wash the feeling away, but it continues to buzz at the back of his head.

His bag is still on the floor next to the coffee table. He pushes it over to where he's standing, a pen and his blue inhaler falls out. The side of the inhaler reads Albuterol. Cas snatches up the medicine and shakes it. He takes a hard puff, feeling the spray hit all the way back in his throat and down to his lungs. A few coughs come up, so he turns away from Dean and buries his nose in his sleeve until it's over. He spits the mucus into the kitchen sink, hoping the night won't last very long.

Thankfully, morning arrives quickly, greeting Cas with a violent wind that rattles the windows. He stares hard out the windows in the front room, but all the snow makes catching the sunrise impossible. The window is frozen shut, a few ice crystals making frost patterns on the glass. Cas heads back into the kitchen after a minute, surprised to see Sam creeping in. He's still in his clothes from the night before, his glasses nowhere to be seen.

"Good morning, Sam," Cas whispers, his voice rough with lack of sleep. Sam startles, jumping and turning to face Castiel.

"Jesus, Cas!" Sam stage-whispers, rubbing his eyes. Cas comes closer so they don't wake Dean. "What are you doing up?" Cas doesn't answer. "Whatever, do you want to help me make breakfast?" Sam opens the fridge, squinting at the sudden light. He pulls out a carton of eggs and some milk.

"I would love to." He clears a space on the counter for Sam's ingredients, brushing away a handful of crumbs. 

"Since it's Christmas Eve, I was thinking we could do something Christmas-y today. Bake cookies, you know, things normal families do for the holiday."

Small talk ensues, along with Sam humming carols. For the most part, Castiel oversees Sam's production of their breakfast: cleaning up a spill, or putting an ingredient away when Sam says he's done with it.

Despite being shrouded by clouds, the sun still manages to seep into the house. The more eggs Sam makes, the brighter the kitchen becomes. When it reaches eight in the morning, Cas excuses himself to go find his inhalers.

Their day doesn't really start until Dean wakes up. He clambers off the couch and over to the kitchen, his hair mussed and his clothes wrinkled. There are lines on his face from where he was laying on the couch. Cas watches his as he tugs the fridge open and downs the milk straight from the carton.

"Oh, gross, Dean!" Sam wrinkles his nose. "At least help me set the table before you dive in." Dean grumbles something that Cas doesn't catch, and he's not sure he would want to.

Dean clears a space on the table by shoving the clutter on to the floor. Sam pours a multi-egg omelette out onto a plate and puts it down on the table. Steam tendrils float up to the ceiling.

Castiel has to get up and spit into the sink several times throughout breakfast. Eventually, he excuses himself to the bathroom. The bathroom sink and mirror are both tall and square; they're dirtier than the ones in Castiel's home, but he isn't looking very hard at himself, anyway. The flourescent light is harsh and yellow compared to the sharp sunlight. He clears his throat and coughs, spitting as much mucus as he can into the sink. His lungs rumble and a lot of the debris gets shaken loose.

There's a soft knock on the door.

"Cas, you okay?" Dean's voice is muffled through the door. "Can I come in?"

"Yes," Cas starts coughing again. The door squeaks when Dean opens it, shuffling in to the small bathroom.

"What's up?" Dean asks, folding his arms over his chest.

"I am fine, Dean." Cas insists, his tongue tasting heavily like salt. "This is normal."

“Seriously?” Dean's lip curls.

”Yes.” Cas insists again. He coughs once more.

"Not much personal space in here, eh?" Dean comments. He makes a half-circle around Cas, rotating so Cas is the one closest to the door. Cas doesn't dare to breathe. Dean takes a step back towards the toilet, Cas leans forwards towards him without realizing it.

"Dean? Cas? You guys alright?" Sam calls from out in the kitchen. Dean huffs like he's been interrupted.

"We're in here, Sammy, everyone's a'okay." Dean calls back.

Sam's voice is right outside the door the next time he speaks. "Who wants to play chess?"

Sam and Cas sit at opposite sides of the table, a cheap wooden chess set between them. Dean is at the head, hands folded in front of him, watching intently.

"Why don't you move that pawn over by that knight?" Dean asks, pointing to a couple of Cas' pieces. It becomes more obvious the more Dean speaks that he has no idea what he's talking about.

"You cannot move pawns backwards, it's against the rules." Cas explains. This is the second game he's played with Sam, the first time he beat Sam in five moves exactly.

"If you're not gonna help us, you can leave," Sam chides to his brother. Dean puts his hands up

"I didn't realize I was such an inconvenience." Dean fakes a sniff. Sam says nothing else. The game carries on.

Hours drip past quicker than Cas can process. He plays through several games of chess with Sam. Dean stays with them through the first two, until he decides he's too utterly bored to carry on. After lunch, Cas finds Dean in his room, putzing around on his laptop.

"Hey," Dean says, scooting over on his unmade bed.

"Good afternoon." Cas continues to stand, wary of all the junk littered across the floor. Dean notices and, shutting the laptop, he stands too.

"Have I shown you those?" Dean points to his mirror, where photographs are stuck to it. They move closer. Most of the photos are of Dean, standing with a red-haired young woman that Cas doesn't recognize. "This is my buddy Charlie. I met her way back when we lived down in Texas, even though we're both from Lawrence." Dean explains. Cas looks closer: the girl always has a smile. Dean's finger moves to the photo below that: Charlie with her arm around a dark-skinned girl in a purple dress. "And that's her girlfriend, Gilda. Dean's eyes are gleaming just from looking at the photos, and he's got a proud sort of smile.

"And that's you, Cas." Dean points at Cas' reflection in the mirror. Dean stands a good few inches taller than Cas. Even without his coat, Castiel looks very small next to him. Cas studies his face in Dean's mirror: his eyes are heavy, but his skin looks bright in a way he hasn't seen it in a long time. Something inside him loosens.

Eventually, Dean hops back onto the bed, and Cas follows. The mattress creaks under their weight. They sit shoulder to shoulder, Dean balancing the laptop on his knees. As Dean navigates the computer, a dozen questions pop up in Cas' head. But he bites his tongue, remembering the conversation they had weeks ago; _you don't get out much, do you?_ rings in Cas' ears.

It's well passed midnight by the time Dean sneaks Sam's present out to the living room. Despite having only a burned nub of a tree left, Dean still manages to put his presents under it. There are already a couple presents there, wrapped carefully in old newspaper comics. Outside, it's still snowing; moonlight streams into the window through the white, fluffy haze. Cas watches Dean put the presents under the tree carefully, then rub his eyes and let out a large yawn.

"You should sleep," Cas offers. Dean shakes his head.

"You're still up, aren't you?"

"I do not sleep very often."

"Well, me neither."

"Dean." Cas tries to make a point, but it falls flat.

"Cas." Dean says back, mockingly. He looks over at the clock, his expression softening. "Let me be the first to say, Merry Christmas, Cas."

"Merry Christmas."

Shadows crash over Dean's face like a wave, making his eyes glint in the darkness. Cas inhales slowly, feeling the air go all the way down his lungs. Dean smiles. Neither one moves, neither one makes a sound. They don't have to.


	10. White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED 6 AUGUST 2014

"Cas, what the fuck?" Is the first thing out of Dean's mouth. He's just been awoken by a loud clanging from the kitchen, and rolled over to see Cas apologizing profusely to a dented pot on the floor. Dean squeeze his eyes and tries not to fall back asleep.

"Oh! My apologies, Dean." Cas scrambles up, eyes wide. Through his sleepy daze, Dean laughs. He checks his watch: nearly 4:30 in the morning.

"Look, Cas, I know you don't sleep, but that's no reason to wake the whole damn neighbourhood."

"That was not my intention." Cas admits, picking the pot up off the floor.

"Well you failed," Dean grumps, sitting up. "The fuck are you doing?"

"I was trying to make breakfast."

It's only when Dean puts his feet on the wood floor that he notices just how cold it got overnight. His toes go numb almost as soon as they hit the floor. But fuck, is it one way to wake up. His entire body tingles and prickles. Despite the shocking cold, Dean's bare feet drag across the floor. The floorboards near Sam's door creak, reminding him to keep quiet.

"Here," Dean keeps his voice at a whisper, squinting when he reaches out to Cas, "lemme help." Cas looks at him, tilting his head to the side.

"That will not be necessary." Cas says, flipping a couple of pages in a large 3-ring binder.

"M'already awake, what's the harm?" Dean insists, swallowing a yawn. "Can't have you breakin' any more shit anyway." Cas doesn't respond, only flips another page in the binder. Dean comes up behind him, peering over his shoulder at the cookbook. But his vision is still blurry from sleep, and in the dark Dean can't make out anything on the page. "What did you have in mind? And why couldn't it wait like, six hours?"

"I didn't have anything in mind yet." Cas shifts back on his feet, leaning close enough for Dean to breathe on his neck. Cas has his coat back on, Dean notices. _Good thing too, seeing how damn cold it got in here._ Dean dances on his toes, trying to keep them from growing painful.

"Whatever, I'll be back." Dean huffs, creeping back into his room. He doesn't notice the cold until he's far away from Cas. His floor is continuously littered with dirty clothes, so he just grabs the first two socks he can find and puts them on. The left sock is threadbare and he can feel the cold latching onto his toes. He puts another sock over it.

When he gets back out, Cas is up on his toes, rooting through one of the cabinets. He wavers for a second, but he's able to grab whatever spice it is that he needs without falling.

"You want my help?" Dean asks, but even asking he can feel his shoulders sag. Cas sniffs the spice before shakes his head.

"No; this was meant to be a surprise for you."

Dean sits down at the table, putting his feet up. Even the bare table is warmer than the floor.

"Surprise me, then."

Much like Dean's chess skills, when it comes to Cas knowing where things are in the Winchester's kitchen, he has no clue what he's doing. It takes him all of two minutes before whispering frantically to Dean about where he can find whatever he needs.

"You're not good at this whole 'surprise' thing, are you?" Dean whispers back. Cas opens his mouth to reply, but reaching up to the top shelf of the cabinet, he slips and drops the bowl he's holding. It hits the stovetop, it booms loud and shrill against the ceramic. Tiny spheres of uncooked burger meat fly everywhere. One even lands in Cas' hair. "Shit!" Dean howls with laughter. He drops his feet back to the floor just so he can lean over and slap his knee. Cas, chuckling, gets down and picks all the meatballs up, endearingly careful. "Damn it, Cas." They both laugh a little harder. That is, until a light flicks on behind them.

Sam stumbles out of is bedroom, his hair sticking up at every angle, squinting.

"What the hell is going on?" He asks, rubbing his eyes.

"What's it look like?" Dean chuckles, "We're making breakfast, duh." Sam glares at him.

"Do you _know_ what time it is?"

"Uh." 4:53, according to his watch.

"Early, Dean! Really early!" Sam rubs his eyes again, clunking down into the seat next to Dean. "Whatever, Merry Christmas." It sounds like an insult when Sam says it. "You need any help, Cas?" Sam's voice is much nicer when he talks to Cas. Once again, Cas refuses.

"Well I see who you love more." Dean taunts to Sam.

"Shut up, jerk." Sam sticks his tongue out.

"Bitch."

Cas winds up making stew for the trio. While it's simmering on the stove, Sam suggests opening presents.

"Since we're already up." Sam adds. Dean stretches, his spine cracking against the back of the chair. Sam flips the lights on.

The three of them sit on the couch, Dean grabbing the presents and putting them on the coffee table. Cas takes a seat beside Dean, tucking his coat under his legs before sitting down. The first present in the pile is Sam's. It's little more than an envelope with a red bow stuck on it, but Sam doesn't seem to mind. Half the time, Dean doesn't bother to even wrap his present. Dean can feel a yawn rising in his throat, but he swallows it. From the envelope, Sam pulls out a gift card that shimmers when he waves it around.

"I can't keep track of everything you read, so I figure I'd play it safe," Dean comments. Sam's grinning at him ear to ear.

"Thanks, Dean!" Dean thinks he couldn't have done much better.

It's Dean's turn next; Sam hands him one of the newspaper-wrapped gifts Dean saw under the tree last night. He tears the paper off, feeling greedy as he eyes the Monty Python DVD inside.

"Oh man, Charlie's gonna love hearing about this one," Dean says, reaching over to ruffle Sam's hair, but Sam leans away. "Thanks, man."

The brothers sink back into the couch, waiting for the last person to reach into the remaining pile.

"Who are those for?" Cas asks, pointing. Dean turns to give him a look.

"Uh, they're for you, dude."

"I didn't realize-- Thank you." Cas says, sincere. He reaches out tentatively, his hands ghosting over both the gifts before choosing the one from Sam. Dean's got no idea what it is. Something soft, seeing how poorly it's been wrapped. It squishes as Cas grabs onto it. Dean finds himself leaning closer to Cas, watching closely as he takes the paper of one piece of tape at a time. His hands are very square and very careful, he makes a project of unwrapping his gift.

A dark blue scarf falls into Cas' lap. He holds it up to the light, shrouding him in a thin blue haze. Dean watches Cas' eyes crinkle as he breaks out into a smile.

"Thank you, Sam." Cas' voice is barely a whisper. He folds the scarf up into his lap.

"You ain't done yet, Cas," Dean reminds him, "You still got one from me." He swipes his gift off the coffee table and hands it to Cas. Cas weighs it in his hand. Dean can feel his stomach clenching, his eyes fixed on Cas' face as he turns the gift over in his hand. Cas undoes the wrapping paper just as carefully as before, even though Dean just threw some tape on it at the last minute. Dean squeezes his fist in his lap.

The leather notebook that Dean bought falls into Cas' hands, shiny and yet unmarked. Dean's eyes snap up to Cas' face, searching for some kind of reaction. Cas squeezes the journal in his hands, his fingerprints making tiny smudges on the leather cover.

"I love it." Cas looks into Dean's eyes. Dean doesn't remember how to breathe. "Thank you."

"'Course," Dean manages.

He hardly registers it when a camera flashes a couple feet away.

Cas tucks his new journal into the pocket of his coat. Dean leans back into the couch, not realizing that he had moved so close to Cas.

"Well, Merry Christmas." He says. 

The couch could be a mirror reflecting right down the middle, with Sammy on one side and Cas on the other. Sammy's sitting with a book in his lap, and Cas is scrawling away in the first pages of his notebook. Dean almost asks what he's writing, but he figures Cas will tell him if it's important. The sun has risen a great deal since Dean stumbled out of bed; now the whole living room is brightly lit. Snow is still falling heavily outside. Sam yawns, shifting in his seat. Dean kicks his feet up to rest on the table, his hands behind his head. Stew sits comfortably in his stomach, spreading the warmth to all of his limbs.

 _Where'd Cas learn to cook, that's my question?_ Dean ponders, leaning the kitchen chair back on two legs and staring up at the ceiling. There's a red stain in the shape of Oklahoma on the otherwise white ceiling, from a few years back when Sam shattered a jar of tomato sauce. A shrill buzz shakes the table under Dean's feet. He drops the chair back onto all four legs. A picture message from Charlie waits on his phone:

Charlie, in a "Bah Humbug!" hat, kisses Gilda, in a springy Christmas tree headband, on the cheek. Charlie's smiling into the kiss, and Gilda's turning pink.

Merry Christmas!!!

Dean snaps a photo of the kids on the couch. Cas looks up at him for a second, but Dean just shrugs. As the picture sends, another message pops up on Dean's screen, this time from Jess.

Happy holidays, Dean!

thx!

How much snow did you guys get?

cnt tell yet its still comin down. u still coming over on sat.?

Most definitely! I wouldnt miss it!

excellent ;)

Jess doesn't reply after that. A second picture message from Charlie shows up a few minutes later: a chainmail vest splayed out on Charlie's bed. Dean squints; it looks like the vest is made out of soda tabs.

Your Highness of Moondoor was gifted proper armor from the lovely Lady Gilda.

pray tell wat is ur armor made out of?

Only the finest soda tabs south of San Antonio

may they serve u well in battle your highness

Dean sets his DVD on the table and sends a picture to Charlie. She sends one back of her chocolate lab, Princess Leia, with a leash hanging from her mouth. The two of them do this for a while, sending pictures back and forth, all while saying as few words as possible. Charlie sends him a selfie, Dean sends one back.

Smile, Mr Grumpy Face!

dont judge me ive been up since 430 :P

wth?? why?

cas was making soup

AT 430 IN THE MORNING?!??

it was spose to be a surprise.

It couldnt wait like 6 hours?

thts what i said!

Still, he made you soup, he sounds dreamy~

watch ur tone, your highness. will gilda have to fight for ur honor?

Watch it! You'll have to defend your own honor, after I demote you!

u wouldnt dare.

As long as you come to the tournament this year!

Dean's chest pangs. He looks up from his phone; Sam's head is tucked against his chest and he's snoring quietly. Cas' eyes are closed, too. A mirror, indeed.

id trek across the shadowy forest for u!

There's another picture: Charlie in a crown, peering down at the camera like it's hardly worthy of her attention.

If youd read your emails youd know they moved the battle across from the park this year.

my apologies your highness :P can i still have my battle speech?

Only if you can best the other knights in combat!

of course! i learned from the best

Flattery wont help you here, Sir Dean.

i know i know :P

Dean gets up from his chair, stretching. Sam stirs in his sleep, but Cas remains still. As quietly as he can manage, Dean treads softly over to the living room. Cas' journal lays on his chest, flipped closed. He has a blue pen that's slipping slowly from between his two middle fingers. Dean holds his breath and takes the pen, setting it down on the coffee table. He looks back at Cas: the crinkles on the edges of his eyes are more relaxed, his lips are parted just so. Standing so close to him, Dean can feel the heat rolling off him. _Like he's fighting off an illness,_ Dean thinks.

He can't take his eyes off of Cas' face, so peaceful in sleep. His heart beats in his throat.

He snaps a photo before sneaking back to the kitchen table.

cas sleepin like a little angel

I thought he didnt sleep?? like ever?

Dean hesistates.

u know us winchesters, always an adventure. we can wear out even the most resilient

Sure Dean, thats it. Is your dad ok that he's there so long?

Dean nearly snorts.

lol dad hasnt been home all week hes stuck at bobbys

I shoulda guessed. Duh, Charlie!

But hey, Dean, my mom needs help doing stuff around the house. Catch you later!

llap charlie

Live long and prosper!


	11. Interlude Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey nerds I'm so sorry this took so long. First month of college, hooray! But also holy shit.
> 
> So, I've been writing on and off for a while. Mostly off.  
> Chapter warnings: alcohol, sensuality (kissing), conversation of terminal illness, mentions of animal death, mentions of parent death and parental abandonment
> 
> EDITED 9 SEPTEMBER 2014

Sam wakes up with no feeling in his toes. He doesn't think he should be surprised, considering the sheet of ice that's covering all the windows. _I hope Dean doesn't take a hair dryer to them like last time._ Sam thinks, stretching and arching along the length of his bed. Reluctantly, he sticks his limbs out from under the sleep-warm covers; he's shivering before he gets both his arms out. _Maybe we left a window open?_ he wonders, crawling back under the covers to find some semblance of warmth. It feels like a century before he can move again, forcing himself to sit up in the bed. The only way Sam knows his feet hit the floor is because he watches them. There's a disconnect between his eyes and his feet when he puts on his fuzzy socks. He fumbles with the door handle, his fingers stiff.

As it turns out, Dean and Cas are already awake. The two boys are curled up next to each other on the couch, blankets upon blankets covering them. They've both got steaming mugs in their hands. Cas looks paler than usual, and he's wearing Dean's old AC/DC shirt underneath his coat.

"What, did you finally run out of your own clothes?" Sam asks Cas. Cas looks up from his cup, startled, as if he didn't notice Sam come in.

"Yes," He sighs, the steam from his drink curling away from him. "Unfortunately." He adds after a beat.

"You're both up early," Sam notes. Dean just gives him a look and hands him a mug. It smells bitter and it makes his fingertips tingle with heat. "What's this, coffee?"

"Yeah," Dean crinkles his nose, "We ran out of hot chocolate." Cas turns to Dean and gives him a look.

"Dean, you finished the--"

"Shut it, Cas." Dean warns. Sam feels like he's missing something, but he just shakes his head and blows on the coffee. His glasses steam up until he can't see the cup in his hands. "So, Sammy, is Jess still on her way over?"

"Oh," Sam's cheeks burn. He totally forgot! "Uh, yeah, let me check." Coffee still in hand, Sam hops back to his room and scrambles around for his phone. He's got a text from Jess, his heart flutters as he reads it.

good morning sam!! i'm super super excited to hang out! 11, right?

yeah! dean's friend castiel is staying with us for break, hope that's ok

the cas he always talks about? yeah thats fine!!

Sam glances out the door at his brother and Cas, both sitting on the couch together, not saying a word.

He figures it's as good a time as any to get ready. His hands shake as he roots through his dresser drawers, not purely from the cold. His mind strays to Jess, sending a jolt of excited electricity through his whole body. Jess' small laugh, and the way she curls her hands into fists when she's excited about something, fill his mind.

His hands are shaking so bad that it takes him three tries to get his shirt on over his head. The shirt is dark purple, with a skinny greyhound across the chest; A lousy Christmas present from his dad last year. The clock on the wall behind him seems to tick slower the harder he listens. He shifts from foot to foot. Runs a hand through his hair. He scans around the room, bouncing on the balls of his feet. _The Outsiders_ , sitting on his bed, catches his eye. The plastic-wrapped front cover is shining yellow in the fluorescent light.

Sam plops down on his bed, keeping one eye on the clock beside him, and dives into the book. The spine cracks and the smell of worn-out pages fills him.

He reads for a while, clutching the pages when Johnny pulls his knife on some Socs. Ponyboy is lamenting having to lose his hair just as the doorbell rings across the house. Sam drops the book like it's on fire, nearly leaping off the bed and scrambling to the front door.

He opens the door to the sharp, cool air running across his skin; goosebumps pop up in a line down his arm. Jess is standing in the doorway, her curly hair kept back under a loose knit cap. Her cheeks are pink from the cold and she's grinning at him with all her off-white teeth. The cold bleeds into the foyer; Jess kicks the door shut. She shuffles in to the front room, setting a Santa-paper wrapped gift down next to all the shoes.

Sam's cheeks jump up ten degrees as Jess snakes her arms around his shoulders. Even through her poofy jacket, Sam can feel the heat pouring off her. If his heart wasn't pounding before, it certainly is now.

"Hey Sammy," Dean's voice is particularly snivelly, cutting through Sam's happy fog with an irksome tingle down his spine. Sam half-turns to his brother to tell him to buzz off. But Dean is smiling like he knows something, a particularly prime secret. Dean points to a spot just above Sam's head. Sam looks up over the top of his glasses: a spidery green plant with white baubles is hanging from the ceiling, stuck on with an inordinate amount of masking tape.

"Mistletoe?" Sam wonders out loud. He looks down.

Jessica Moore is standing in front of him. Under the mistletoe. She's smiling like she expected this. Sam wants to kill his brother, he can just feel Dean's grin from here. But he can't look away from Jess, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Sam feels his heart in his throat. She's leaning closer. Closer.

Jessica Moore is kissing him. Under the mistletoe. _Finally,_ Sam thinks, his heart sounding like it's going to beat right out of his chest. Her lips are sticky, like chapstick but sweeter, and when he puts a hand up to cup her cheek, her face is still cold. She shivers to his touch, pulling her lips away. She laughs, and he swears the whole world is golden.

Sam's glasses, he realises quickly, are fogging up around the edges. He really doesn't care, he just wants to kiss her again. She grabs his hand, squeezing. His hand buzzes at the contact.

"C'mon," she says, glancing over to where Dean's standing. "Let's go somewhere else." It's an innocent enough sentence, but it along with the weight of Jess' hand in his, sends a jolt down Sam's spine. Dean gives him a hearty thumbs up as they pass him; Sam uses his free hand to flip Dean the bird.

Glancing into Dean's room as they pass by, Sam makes eye contact with Cas for a split second, shooting him a smile. Cas looks up from the journal he's scribbling away in just long enough to smile back.

Filing in after Jess, Sam shuts his bedroom door with a soft click. Jess is on him in an instant, her shockingly cold hands leeching the heat off his face and her lipgloss lips back on his. It doesn't take long for Sam to realize neither of them know what they're doing: she's kissing with all her teeth and he can't seem to make his tongue sit still in his mouth. Jess' lipgloss sticks to Sam's dry lips, making a weird, wet sound when they finally move apart. Sam slides his glasses back into place.

Still, he finds himself sighing into her. She's smiling, a glittery smudge on her front two teeth.

"Sam," she starts, her smiling growing wider. "Will you be my boyfriend?"

"What do you think?" Sam nods, reaching up to brush her hair. His fingers get tangled in her blonde mass of curls. "Crap."

"Come on, Sam." Jess is laughing, helping him get his hand out. "That's no way to treat a lady! Didn't Jane Austen teach you anything?" He sticks his tongue out, finally getting his hand free.

"First day on the job and I'm already being criticized, geez."

Jess rolls her eyes. Sam thinks it's adorable. He hold out an elbow to her.

"Shall we?" He nods. She takes his arm for the few short steps it takes to get over to his bed. _Shit,_ Sam thinks, cringing internally, _I didn't make the bed._ But if the way Jess plops herself down on the mattress is any indication, she doesn't mind at all. He lies down next to her, watching her curl a strand of her hair around her finger.

"You know what's weird?" She asks.

"What's weird?"

"There was this one time, when I was at my mom's house--" She stops short, bolting up from the bed. "Wait!" She looks around the room like it's on fire. "I forgot your present!" Sam doesn't have time to ask her what she's talking about before she runs out.

Outside the pocket of his bedroom, he hears her voice mix with Castiel's. Sam clambers off his bed to investigate, after hearing the word 'boyfriend' drop from Jess' lips.

Jess is elsewhere by the time Sam gets to the doorway of Dean's room. Castiel hasn't moved, still with his trenchcoat tucked underneath him and his journal in hand.

"Hey, Castiel," Sam says with a smile, still a little flushed.

"Sam," Cas closes his his journal and gestures for Sam to sit beside him. "Your friend went to get your Christmas present." Sam takes the seat next to him.

"What are you writing?" Sam asks, looking down at the journal. It's the one Dean gave him: there's a little bookmark sticking out a couple pages in. Cas looks at him, his eyes far away.

"I am not sure yet."

"Yeah, alright." Sam nods.

Jess comes into the room, holding Sam's gift in her hands.

"Sorry I took so long, you cat was outside so I let him in." She says. Sam and Cas look at each other. A shiver of _oh shit_ runs through Sam.

"I will take care of the cat." Cas says, already on his feet. He leaves, his coat fluttering out behind him. Jess gives Sam a look, but he just shrugs.

"Anyway, on to more important matters," she says, handing him his present. "Merry Christmas!"

The gift is solid. He doesn't spend as much time unwrapping it as Castiel would have, he goes right in to tear the paper off. Beneath the paper is a painting, with Jess' signature in the corner: a tiny wooden cabin covered in snow. There are people out in the yard, that look suspiciously similar to their friends. Painting Jess and Painting Sam are wrapping a scarf around a snowman's neck, while Painting Brady and Painting Kevin are lining up snowballs to shoot at their heads. Jess' style is pretty non-detailed, and some places are lumpier with paint than others. But, still,

"I love it," Sam insists. Jess beams. "I kind of want to hug it." He admits. He doesn't, instead he leaves the canvas next to him, and hugs the painter.

"I know it's not the best, but..." She starts to say, but Sam stops her.

"Are you kidding, Jess? This is fantastic."

She leans into his shoulder. He wishes the moment could last forever. Unfortunately, it only takes another moment before all hell breaks loose.

 

"Why the _fuck_ would you even think we could keep a cat here?" Dean's fuming, leaning hard on the refrigerator. Sam is glaring at him from the other side of the kitchen table. Sam's insides are burning up.

"All I'm saying is that he was going to freeze to death if Jess hadn't let him in!" Sam is practically shouting. Jess is sitting in the living room with Castiel and the cat, the couch an unstable barrier between them and the brothers. Sam wonders how much longer this argument will go.

"So? You remember when we found that dog, right? What dad did?" Dean's lip twitches, but he doesn't break.

"Yeah," Sam huffs, sparing the details from Jess' ears. If Sam remembers right, and he knows he does, their dad had cursed them both out and threatened to take the dog out to Bobby's and shoot it.

Dean opens his arms, as if that explains everything.

"So you see my point!"

"Dad isn't even here!" The silence that follows proves it true enough. Dean huffs, rubbing his fingers together like he's trying to hold something that isn't there.

"Well I am here. How are you gonna feed it? Where's it gonna go to the bathroom? And what about when Dad gets back?"

"I..." Sam starts, then stops. " I don't know," he admits. He feels himself shrinking under his brother's gaze. Dean's giving him a look akin to the _I told you so_ he sees on John so, so often.

Sam wants to shout until he's blue in the face but he can't. _Just help the fucking cat, why don't you?_ Sam's upper lip quivers. _Why do you have to do every damn thing Dad wants?_

Sam is pretty sure he didn't say any of that out loud, but maybe he didn't need to.

"Fine." Dean nearly spits the word out of his mouth. "The cat can stay." Sam's anger evaporates instantaneously. "But you've gotta be the one to take care of him. And he's only here 'til Dad gets back."

"Can Cas help me?" Sam swivels around from Dean to Cas, who's petting the cat calmly. Gabe is rumbling. Jess is looking like she has a zillion questions she can't ask.

"I would love to help."

Sam smiles. Gabe mews.

"Just," Dean says, making Sam turn back to him, "don't make me regret this."

 

The cold from the Impala's hood seeps under every layer of Sam's clothes. Even with three people crammed onto the car hood, it isn't very warm. Sam is sticking his feet out to dangle over the headlights, Cas has his legs crossed, and Dean, beer in hand, props himself up on his elbows.

 _I really hate Tuesdays. Who let New Year's Eve be on a Tuesday?_ Sam thinks, a cool wind lapping at his neck. He looks up at the sun, swinging low in the middle of the sky, wishing it would give off just a little more warmth. Some white noise from the city floats up to them, honking cars and rush-hour traffic jams.

"Is this really how we're gonna spend New Year's Eve?" Dean asks. His voice is loose, his shoulders drooping just a bit. Sam angles himself to face his brother.

"Did you have something else to do?" Sam asks, a little more accusing than he means it to be. Dean sneers, glaring at the rim of his beer can. Sam has a sneaking suspicion it's not just Bud Lite in Dean's can

"Tch, no," Dean scoffs. He takes another drink. "Actually," Dean starts, glancing back at Cas before turning towards Sam. "I-- We wanted to talk to you about something." Sam's heart jumps. _Shit_. He licks his lips, cold and dry against the wind.

"Okay. Shoot." Sam runs his fingers through his hair.

Dean sighs, giving Cas a long look. "You remember that school back in Maryland? The one we were at for like, two weeks?" Sam squints. He remembers, barely. The school had a bunch of yellow and blue jump ropes in the gym. "Anyway, they had a fund-raiser for cystic fibrosis, and I stole that stuffed bear for you 'cause you didn't win anything." _Oh, that school_.

"Yeah," Sam nods. "Wait, you stole Mister Fluff?" Dean snorts. "Whatever, how is this relevant?" Dean's face is stone. It's then that Sam realizes Cas, hands jammed into his pockets, has yet to say a word.

"Well, it's not. I mean, the bear thing, that wasn't--" Dean trips over his words, slurring them together just a hair. He takes a drink. "Whatever, Cas wanted to--"

"Sam." Castiel cuts in, derailing whatever tangent Dean was going down. Sam looks at Cas: his eyes are dark and the shadows make them look like they've already sunk deep into their sockets. "I have cystic fibrosis."

Sam wants to throw up. The word _terminal_ flashes in his head. Cas' look of sorrow just then will be burned onto the back of his eyes for years to come.

Dean stands up, stretching, and downing the rest of the bottle all at once. He sways on his feet.

"Cas." Sam stammers out. He squeezes his eyes shut before he can talk again. The world feels like it's been tilted on a very precarious axis. "How, uh, how long do you have?" Sam asks, turning his attention back on Castiel. His heart is trying to squeeze it's way out of his throat. He racks his brains for everything he knows on the illness: not a lot comes up.

"I am fairly well-off, Sam. You don't need to worry. As long as I keep up my treatment, the doctors believe I will have a few years, at least." Cas' voice is calm, as if he's made this speech a thousand times. Sam swallows his heart back down.

"Awesome." It's Dean who speaks up. His body is tilted to the left. "Fuckin' awesome." Sam grinds his teeth. Cas reaches a hand out to steady his friend.

"Dean." Cas looks to him with worry in his eyes. "Take a seat." Dean drops to the ground, letting the bottle crash unceremoniously to the ground and shatter. It doesn't smell like beer, it's more potent. Something in Sam's stomach is grinding, the same way it was when Jess let Gabe into the house.

"What are you doing, Dean?" Sam accuses. "What the hell are you doing?"

Dean says nothing. So, Sam keeps talking.

"Really, a beer on New year's Eve I can forgive, it's not like you haven't done _that_ before." Sam gnashes his teeth. "But Cas is here, man, you think he wants to see you like this? What the hell are you doing? And _why_?"

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it. "S'Cas," he mutters, looking down.

"Castiel?" Sam starts to form another question, but Dean keeps talking.

"Yeah," Dean gestures vaguely to the boy in question. "He's-- I mean, he's been... An' I can't..." more vague gestures. "N' I can't help him."

And then the attention swivels to Cas, who's leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees.

"That is not your fault," Cas assures him. Dean only grunts. Cas stares at him, hard, until he looks up from the ground. _It's like Cas is a magnet, geez._ Dean and Cas stare hard at each other. "You are correct, Dean. There is nothing you can do to help me. But it's not like this is new to me. My doctor has said the best thing to do is for you to simply be my friends." Cas looks away from Dean at last. Sam feels something well up in his throat, feeling like he missed the silent conversation that passed between the other two.

"We can do that." He agrees.

 

Sam moves a pawn one space diagonally right, taking Cas' knight. He tries to keep his smile down when he plucks the piece off the board.

"You are doing very well," Cas whispers to him.

"I play games with Kevin all the time, guy's a freakin' genius." Sam whispers back.

The entire house is dark, save for the single lamp they have on the floor next to them, illuminating the chess board between them. Dean went to bed close to an hour ago, trying to sleep off his inevitable hangover. It wasn't long after that Sam pulled out his chess board, and they've been playing ever since. Cas has one two games already, and there was a draw on the last one.

"Of course," Cas nods, moving his rook out a couple spaces. Sam pushes his glasses up his nose, and takes his eyes off the game board for a second to check the time: nearly midnight.

"Hey, it's almost the New Year, do you want to call your mom?" He asks his friend. Cas thinks for a moment.

"After the fact." He answers, looking directly at Sam, "I was meaning to ask you, Sam, do you remember your mother?"

Sam stops breathing. He feels like the snow outside got shoved down the back of his shirt and he's not allowed to curse about it. Cas' face falters.

"Sam, I didn't mean to--"

_Oh, right. Speaking. Breathing, right. _"No, Cas," Sam puts his hands up, "You just surprised me. It's okay." He takes a breath deep enough he can feel it down in his stomach. "Dean doesn't like me talking about her, much."__

"I don't see how that's relevant. I am asking you if you remember anything."

Sam's mouth fills with an acrid taste he can't seem to swallow.

"No." He tries to spit the taste out, but it only grows. "Only what Dean tells me sometimes, and even then." Sam tries to brush it off. "What about you? You live with your mother, right?" It's Castiel's turn to freeze. He stiffens, straightening his back. It reminds Sam of Dean.

"Yes. I do not remember my father, he left when I was very young. My mother told me about him, but I always felt as if..." Castiel furrows his brow, as if he can't quite find the right words. Luckily, Sam can.

"Like there's a part of them she wants to keep to herself?" He offers. _Yeah, Cas gets it._ "What would she say?"

Castiel pauses, moving a bishop out onto the playing field. Somewhere across the room, Gabriel is purring loudly.

"I believe it would be better if I show you." Castiel answers, rising to his feet with a few cracks of his joints. He comes back a minute later with a blue folder in hand. He leafs through it, pulling out a tattered sheet of paper. Sam handles it carefully, like it's made of glass. But when he looks it over...

"Cas, I can't read this." Sam tells him. "This is in, what, French?" Castiel's cheeks pink slightly.

"Yes, I... I apologize. I had written this while I was in France with my mother." He takes the paper back, translating in his head before he reads.

_My father was a restless god._

Never an angry one.

Never a benevolent--

Well, perhaps I'll get to that later.

_He was always larger,_

grander,

all-encompassing.

He was more

than the four walls that he had built up around us.

He did not make from nails and drywall,

he made from charcoal and a primordial fire.

Flowers sprung from his hands where he worked.

But he never stood out long enough

to see them bloom

Or wither.

He poured sunshine into every corner,

paced through all the empty rooms with the grace of the archangels.

But then he would turn back to face us:

a cherub with no wings,

and a seraphim with no voice.

With us he would shrivel,

shrink,

disintegrate.

He was less

than the cereal crumbs on the kitchen floor.

Our roots dug too deep into the Earth

when his were light enough to walk on water.

Sam nods attentively, licking his lips once Castiel stops reading. It's a long moment before he can speak. He repeats the thought from earlier: _Cas gets it_.

"A restless god," Sam echoes, "Kinda reminds me of Dean, you know?" Sam leans over, his chin parallel with the chess board. He quiets his voice even more, like he's telling a secret. "Dean always talks about Mom like she was some kind of... Golden woman, like she could do no wrong. I mean, sometimes I think he forgets she was just a person, like the rest of us." Castiel nods.

"I understand," Castiel muses. And Sam knows he does.


	12. Poetic

Dean's backpack nearly drags him down to the ground, it's so damn heavy this morning. In fact, everything feels heavy, from his backpack to the thick fog settled on the ground outside. The door to the Shop room swings shut violently loud behind him. Dean can't be bothered to flinch. He sighs when he sits down, wanting a cig between his fingers and a cloud of smoke to billow out in front of him.

 _What the hell is wrong today?_ he asks silently, rolling his eyes at himself. He goes through his mental checklist, grinding his teeth a little harder the further down he gets: _Sammy's okay, John got out to work, we have that dinner with Jo and Ellen tonight, no one's dead, Cas is--_ oh, fuck, there it is. _Cas._ He didn't answer his phone when Dean came to pick him up this morning, so Dean had to leave without him. Of course. No wonder.

 _C'mon, dude._ Dean reprimands himself, _You just saw him for a week straight. He's allowed to take a day off._ He slumps in his seat anyway. His chest feels heavy.

It's then that Jace walks in, swinging her hips like she was born to. On any other day, it would send Dean reeling, but today he barely notices. He taps his foot on the leg of his desk, but stops short. He cracks his knuckles when they start to shake.

"Dean? Hello?" Jace is waving a hand in front of his face. He blinks.

"Shit," he mumbles, "Sorry, I--"

"It's fine," Jace rolls her eyes, "You okay today?" Her tone is sweet and it doesn't suit her. Dean feels himself bristle.

"Yeah, fine. Just," he sighs, "not all here." Jace gives him a look, squinting. Eventually, she just lets it drop.

"Whatever, Dean."

Dean really, really can't find it in himself to care. It crosses his mind that he could just leave, go out to the Impala and crank the tape player up as loud as it can go. But, no, he can't. He sighs and slumps back into his seat, trying hard not to think at all.

Dean honestly isn't sure how he makes it through Shop without breaking his hands from how many times he's cracked his knuckles in the past hour. They ache in the way that makes Dean want to punch something, just so he can crack them more. He trudges through the hallway, stepping into his English class feeling like he's missing something important.

The desks are all lined up in pairs. Jo is sitting with her partner up at the front of the room, so Dean snags the chair a row behind her. She looks him up and down, brows furrowed. Dean just shrugs, he doesn't have an answer to whatever she's going to ask.

He drops his bag like a bomb, strolling up to Mrs. Leonard, who's sitting alone at her desk. Ms. Nisbet is absent, too.

"Uh, my partner isn't here," Dean tells her. She frowns, flipping through some papers on a clipboard.

"Castiel, right?"

"Yeah." Mrs. Leonard tut-tuts, thinking for a minute.

"Yes, his mother contacted me today, said he'll be out for a while. Let me get some papers together." She leaves Dean standing at her desk, his heart squeezing uncomfortably. He shifts on his feet, thinking back to the week before: he'd lost count of how many times Cas had left to do... Whatever health things he needed to do. Maybe Cas had been lying, that his behavior wasn't normal? Maybe he was--

Dean doesn't get to finish his thought; the teacher comes back and hands him a stack of papers with Castiel's name scribbled across the top. He thanks her, circling around the room a couple times before sitting back in his seat. The stack of papers makes itself comfortable on Dean's desk, he tosses his copy of Frankenstein down next to it. For once in his life, Dean actually wants to do his schoolwork.

He puts his phone in his lap at the same time he flips open his book. The chapter starts with a letter from Frankenstein's father wishing the scientist well. After a few paragraphs, Dean scoops up his phone and gets as far as hey cas do u think theres any symbolism in before stopping. He deletes the texts, pocketing his phone. Instead, he takes up a pen and jots a note in the margin of the paper.

frankensteins worse @ answering his friends than u :P

It's just a few minutes later that Dean's phone vibrates on his leg. He has a text from a number he doesn't recognize.

Hello, Dean. This is Castiel's mother, Adra. Castiel is out for his routine doctor's appointment, but he won't be back in school for about a week. Are you okay to get him the work he misses? Thank you.

sure thing miss novak. can i get a copy of his schedule tho?

Of course. Thank you again, Dean.

Dean wants to say something else, but he closes his phone and picks his book back up.

 

Rummy barks over the chatter in Bobby's kitchen. Sam is busy setting the table up. Everyone else is standing around chatting. Jo scratches Rummy behind the ears. Dean leans back on the counter, listening more to the bubbling of the soup than any of the conversations around him. He doesn't miss Bobby cursing under his breath, though.

"Too damn many people in this kitchen," the old man mutters, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his sleeve.

"Want some help?" Dean offers. Bobby nods and mutters something gruff in reply. Dean claps his hands. "Alright, everyone out of the kitchen. Gotta let the man work his magic!" Jess files out first, followed by Sam and the Harvelle's. Rummy pads after Jo with a whine. Dean glances at Bobby, running in his head exactly what he's going to say when he gets back, before following everyone to the table.

Everyone shuffles into their seats, Ellen and Jo sitting next to each other despite the heated conversation they're getting into. It's one Dean's heard before. So many times, in fact, he's nearly got it memorized.

"I'm just saying, Mom," Jo sighs, "Going into the police academy could be good for me."

"To do what, Joanna Beth? Get shot up in some rusty back alley?" Ellen argues, gripping her fork knuckle-white. Dean's surprised the utensil doesn't fold right in half. "Is that really where you want to be?"

"I could be damn great at it, Mom!"

"That's a no, Jo!" Ellen snaps. She drops her fork, it's bent slightly.

Silence.

"Alright, fine." Jo blows a tuft of hair out of her eyes. Dean goes back to the kitchen. He knows their argument is far from over, but that's enough for now.

Bobby is busying himself over the stove, dashing seasoning after seasoning into the soup without bothering to stop for a taste. Dean shifts on his feet, crossing and uncrossing his arms across his chest. His hands start to shake again.

"You gonna stand there all day, boy?" Bobby asks, not looking up from his soup. Dean flinches. "At least taste this, wouldja?" He obliges, strolling over to his uncle, who holds a ladleful of soup up to his mouth. Dean slurps down warm chicken broth with chunks of carrots and a few other vegetables. Bobby's cooking almost makes Dean like vegetables. Almost. He nods at Bobby, feeling the soup warm him all the way down.

"S'great, Bobby," Dean manages, still rolling the taste around on his tongue.

"You alright, boy?" Bobby takes a pause to look up at Dean, who unwittingly takes a step back.

"Yeah," Dean lies, "Yeah. I just--" he clears his throat, looking away from his uncle. "I wanted t'talk to you about somethin'."

"Alright, shoot." Bobby turns the heat on the stove down.

Dean's heart is slamming against his ribs. His whole body feels stiff and his hands won't stop shaking.

"You know Cas, yeah? You... Remember him from church?" Dean stammers out. The taste of broth on his tongue makes him want to gag. Bobby gives him a hard look.

"'Course I do."

"Did you, uh, ever know," Dean pauses to licking his lips and crack his knuckles once again. "anything, uh, different about him?"

Bobby looks at Dean harder.

"Where're you goin' with this?"

Dean sighs. He can't look Bobby in the eye, not now. He fixes his gaze on a small hole in Bobby's flannel shirt, instead.

"He's sick, Bobby. He's-- He's got, uh..."

Bobby's hand lands on Dean's shoulder. "Kid." Bobby stops him. Thank God. "It's alright. I know."

"You do?" The relief is tangible on Dean's tongue. It tastes like salt.

"Please, boy, half the reason I went to that church for so long was the gossip."

Dean wrings his hands.

"So, uh, you know why he couldn't come tonight?"

"You said he was sick, I figure he's got one of his week-long check ups. Used to have them all the time, Adra said." Bobby twitches a smile at Dean, "He's gotten a lot better, though. No need to worry."

"I wasn't worried."

"Sure, kid." Bobby goes back to his soup.

And then John Winchester stumbles in.

Dean snaps to attention, forgetting the stinging at the back of his eyes and the raw feeling in his throat in an instant. John half-heartedly kicks his shoes off, barely giving Dean a passing glance. He sniffs, tugging his jacket and almost composing himself before heading into the dining room. Bobby stops him just before he reaches the other side of the kitchen.

"Nice of you to show up, John."

Dean hardly breathes. His blood goes cold.

John doesn't reply. He merely brushes past Bobby and slams himself down at the head of the table. Dean follows him silently.

Dean takes the seat next to Jo, bumping elbows with her when he sits down. Across from him, Sam and Jess both give him a look. Dean's phone buzzes in his pocket.

why is he even here?

Dean fights the urge to roll his eyes. cuz hes our dad, dumbass

Sam glares at him across the table. yeah and hes making everyone really uncomfortable. Sam wraps an arm around Jess' shoulder. It makes something swell in Dean's chest.

"Dad," Sam turns his attention back to John. Dean's stomach goes from swelling to squeezing in two seconds flat. "This is my girlfriend Jess." John looks up from his empty plate and squints at Sam.

"Yeah, I know who she is." John sniffs dismissively, "Congrats."

Before anyone has the chance to say anything else, Bobby comes out holding a pot of soup between two mismatched oven mitts. Rummy, sitting at Jo's feet, whines. Whatever conversations had been developing are put on hold while everyone slurps their soup. Hasn't changed in five minutes, Dean thinks thankfully, digging in.

One of the lights on the chandelier flickers. Spoons clink against the bottom of bowls. Dean stares at John pop open a beer can.

Jess finishes her soup first, her spoon clattering down with a heavy sense of satisfaction.

"That was really fantastic, Mister Singer."

"Well I hope you ain't full, 'cause there's more on the way. And it's Bobby here, Jess." Bobby says, his chair scraping across the floor when he stands. He grabs John's empty beer can on the way back to the kitchen and tosses it in the trash. John gets up and follows Bobby. Dean's stomach churns, and it's not from the soup.

"So, Jess," Ellen starts, trying to strike up a conversation. "What do you do?"

"Uh," Jess blinks, "I'm in middle school?" She offers. Ellen chuckles.

"I know that, sweetheart. I meant what do you like? Sam says you're an artist, but I know that ain't all." Ellen's got her mom voice. Dean's been around her long enough to know what she's doing. But while Jess is thinking on an answer, the arguing starts.

There's a crash from the kitchen, Bobby's dropped something. Or John has.

"What the fuck are you doing, John?" It's Bobby's voice.

"I'm just trying to help," John defends sloppily.

"No, I mean what're you doin' here? I thought I told you, if you're gonna drink, don't bother comin' over."

"I'm just trying to spend time with my family, Bobby."

"Like hell you are."

Dean stands. He pushes down on the table like he can tether their conversation to the ground if he pushes hard enough.

 _What's with all these metaphors, Winchester?_ He thinks. He leaves the table, heading further back into the house.

Dean paces. He shakes out his hands. It feels like he's got something boiling away inside him. The old books on the shelves stare at him, like they're expecting him to do something. _What the hell, Dean? This isn't poetry, this is fucking pathetic._ He wants to rip the books off their shelves. Instead, he slumps down next to the bookshelf with his phone in hand. All the sound in the house is muffled back here. Thank God.

The contact name Adra Novak stares at him harder than the book. His thumb hovers over the call button. He hears Bobby shouting from back in the kitchen, some empty threat or another. Dean hits 'call'.

His heart is up in his mouth as he puts the phone up to his ear. It rings once. Twice. Dean is pretty sure he's going to actually be sick. What a waste of Bobby's--

"Hello?" The voice on the other end of the line is quiet. She sounds tired.

"Uh, Adra? It's Dean. Dean Winchester?" Dean offers, tapping his fingers against the leg of his pants.

"Oh," there's some shuffling, "Yes, Dean. Is there something you need?"

Oh. Dean stops. He really doesn't know what to say.

"Uh," he stammers, scratching his head. He picks at a hole in his knee. There's the slamming of doors coming from the other side of the house. "How's Castiel doing?" And the dam breaks. "I mean, he's doing alright, right? I know I saw him for a week, but still, a guy's gotta wonder. Oh, but don't worry, I'm getting all his work together, and I--"

"Dean." Adra interrupts him. "Yes, Castiel is doing fine. You do not need to worry." There's a pause, like she's leaning the phone away for a minute. "It is just a routine check-up, he has those from time to time. The doctor said he's doing well."

"Okay. Okay, good." Dean nods. Something like relief settles into his bones.

"Yes, it's very good," Adra says. "I haven't heard him say so in..." She clears her throat. "Well." Dean feels like he can't quite hear something in her voice. There's a pause. "Is there anything else?"

_Yeah, why do I feel so sick? Has Castiel mentioned me? Does he ever? What does he say?_

"No, that's really it."

"Very well. Should I let him know you called?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah."

Silence.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, I'm still here Mrs. Novak." Dean sits up a little straighter.

"Very good. Thank you, Dean. Thank you for calling."

"'Course."

"Take care."

The line clicks.

Dean stands, his whole body aching in a new way. He goes back to the table, a large roast turkey waiting for him in the middle. The head of the table is empty, John's already left.


	13. Photograph

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boys, that's really gay.
> 
> Chapter warnings: hospitals and mentions of IVs, drowning and related panic, conversations of death, terminal illnesses, violence, smoking, allusions to grief and loss, brief and mild sensuality.

Only once before can Castiel remember being quite as nervous as he is now: he had been ten, standing in front of his mother and an empty chess board, asking Adra about his father for the first time. Today, he's laying back on his hospital bed, phone in hand. The clock on the wall ticks by, and the television screen above his bed runs through another staticky episode of Full House.

Castiel's hands are shaking over the call button. He would be much more still if he weren't so worn out, he knows. The vest wound around his chest and the IV drip in his arm don't help. Castiel inhales slowly, feeling the air stretch all the way to the bottom of his lungs. He winces, and dials Dean's number.

"H'lo?" Dean's voice is scratchy and heavy, as if he's just awoken from a nap.

"Hello, Dean." Castiel leans the phone away to take another deep breath. He coughs instead.

"Uh, what's up?"

"I am going to be discharged on Thursday." Castiel figures it's best to start with the facts.

"That's great, man. How're you feelin'? I talked to your mom a bit on Monday and she said you were doing alright but, you know, I wanted to, you know," Dean stops to sigh, and Castiel can almost see him rubbing his face with his hands. "Anyway, how are you? Wait, I said that already." Castiel smiles.

"My mother was right, Dean, I am doing fine." Castiel assures him. "I feel remarkably..." he looks down at the IV, "human."

"Yeah? Poor Angel-man, must be pretty tough."

"Excuse me?" Castiel doesn't understand.

"Nothin'. So, you're going home on Thursday?"

"Yes." Castiel takes a deep breath, very glad he is no longer hooked up to a heart monitor. The clock on the wall ticks forward. "I was wondering if you would like to spend the night with me on Friday." There's a pause.

"Yeah, Cas, I'd love that."

Castiel feels his heart sink back into his chest, much lighter than before. Thank God.

"Very well."

Yeah," Dean sounds far away. There's some shuffling and some background static through the phone line. "Hey, Cas, buddy, I've got to go, my shift is starting." Oh. Something akin to disappointment tugs at Castiel's navel.

"Yes, alright."

"I'm real sorry. But, Friday?"

"Friday." Castiel nods.

"Awesome. I'll see you then."

The phone line drops and Castiel is once again left alone. He rests his phone in his lap. A cart with a squeaky wheel rolls by outside his door. The television screen is still heavily static. Castiel leans back into the lumpy pillows, thinking about nothing but Dean: the boy is standing in the middle of his mind, making himself comfortable like he was meant to be there. Castiel nearly picks up his phone again to call Dean back, if just to hear him talk. He pauses. _I can wait until Friday._ He tells himself.

 

Dean stands in the doorway to the Novak's house with a ratty duffel bag under one arm and stack of papers under the other. His clothes are dirty and his hair is a mess. Castiel's heart stops when he opens the door for Dean.

"Hey, Cas," Dean smiles at him. Maybe it's the fluid clinging to his lungs as well, but Cas finds it very hard to breathe. He had not realized just how badly he missed the boy until right then.

"Dean." Cas can't find any other words to say, so he simply lets Dean into the house. Walking to the door doesn't seem nearly as bright as walking back.

"Sorry I'm late," Dean grimaces, "My dad got home early and there was some shit I had to take care of."

"What sort of shit?" Cas asks, helping Dean set his bag down at the island. Dean shoves the stack of papers his way: notes from his English class, Cas notices, covered in green pen marks. He leaves the notes on the island for later. Dean shifts closer to Cas.

"Just family shit. Nothing new." Dean looks around. "Where's your mom?"

"She is working."

"Oh, good." And then Dean is pulling Cas into a hug, wrapping both arms around Cas' shoulders and giving him a squeeze. Cas can't move. "Shit, I missed you." When Dean finally lets go, Cas feels cold everywhere they aren't touching.

"I..." Words fail him. Cas stares anywhere but Dean: the coils on the stove have gone from blisteringly hot to stark cold since Cas finished his cup of tea, the leaves on the trees outside are blowing up into tiny tornados on the ground. It reminds Cas of something. "I have something to show you." Cas' arm brushes Dean's as he walks past and Cas forgets how to breathe again.

The wind rams against Cas' coat as he opens the door. Instead of letting it go like he normally would, Cas buttons his trenchcoat up to the top. The leaves are whipping around the ground, handfuls of dirt are tossed carelessly about by the wind.

"Welcome to Eden," Cas says, holding the door open for Dean. As if on cue, the leaves halt their rustling so Dean can step out.

The garden is muted in color, even the evergreens along the far wall have lost much of their vibrancy. A pile of snow sits harsh and unmelted beneath the willow tree on Cas' right. The stone walkway in front of Cas is more gray than usual. It clacks in the cold when he walks over it. Dean leaves crunch underfoot.

"I realize this is not as impressive as it could be." Castiel says. He feels Deans tep closer to him, following his lead as he walks past the willow tree to get closer to the fountain. There's only one path, but Dean isn't more than a step behind Cas the whole way. He stumbles more than once. "You're having trouble." Cas holds an arm out for Dean. He doesn't take it.

"There's so many friggin' plants and shit, I don't wanna step on any of 'em." Dean says it casually, but it makes warmth bubble in Cas' stomach anyway.

That is very kind of you."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean dismisses, but Cas catches his smile before he turns away. The fountain in the middle of the garden is still burbling in full force, as frigid as the water may be. The angel on top has the lightest dusting of snow across it's wings. Cas stops to admire it, how it shines in the fading sunlight.

Before he knows it, he's toppling forward and everything is shocked with icy cold water. He feels like he's been slapped. Cold. Silence. Shock. Water in his mouth, his throat. Freezing. Water from the fountain. Cas' hands and elbows have all feeling sucked out of them. _Shit, God, oh God. It's so cold._ He starts to thrash. Cold, cold, cold.

Movement. Cas shuts his eyes. He can't see straight. Dizzy. And then air. Sweet, frosty air choking on the way down. He coughs. He's standing up. How did he get up? He's so cold. There's a hand on his back. Warm. The hand is warm.

Dean is saying something. Cas stares at him. What's he saying? Cas can't tell. He stares harder.

"Fuck, Cas, I had no idea, I'm so sorry," Dean is babbling. Cas feels water drip down his back. He shudders. Dean's hand is on the back of Cas' neck. Cas opens up to say something. A mouthful of water comes out instead. Cas doubles over. His cough isn't just wet, it's sticky too. Dean curses. "Shit, let's get you inside." Cas nods. He's not quite sure what happened, anyway.

 

Does Dean ever stop apologizing when he makes a mistake?

dean apologizing? what are you on? deans never said sorry in his life.

This is not true. Dean is, in fact, sitting on Castiel's bed saying he's sorry for at least the fourth time since they came up to the bedroom. He helped wring out Cas' coat and got him a spare shirt from the drawer, all while Cas coughed all the water out into the bathroom sink the floor below. Cas needed an extra hand on the trap door, and Dean didn't let his wrist go until they were all the way over to Cas' bed. His eyes are trained on Cas as he strips his shirt off. Cas tries to pretend his shiver is from the cold.

Cas has been shirtless in front of people before. All things considered, it is nearly impossible for him not to have been. But there's something different about this, about the way Dean is looking at him.

"Uh, Cas?" Dean asks, eyes not leaving Cas' chest. Cas hopes his flush isn't too visible. "I didn't know you had a tattoo." Dean points. He gets up off the bed, standing in front of Cas. _Oh. Of course._ Cas looks down at his bare torso: _non timebo mala_ is written across it in a curling script, each word slightly more faded than the last.

"Yes, it's been a birthday present from my mother for the past few years."

"Shit," Dean raises his eyebrows, "is that legal?"

"Not in most places." Cas answers vaguely. He admires his tattoo with refound fondness.

"You'da been, what, fifteen when you got the first one?" Dean calculates.

"Fourteen," Cas corrects.

"Well, fuck me." Dean lets out a low whistle. Cas' cheeks burn. Dean blinks at him, turning red. "It's an expression."

"Right."

"What's it mean, anyway? Your tattoo?" Dean moves a hand out as if to touch Castiel, but instead he folds his arms across his chest. Cas clears his throat.

"It's part of a Bible verse. It means 'I will fear no evil', from Psalm twenty-three." Cas explains. Dean keeps staring at him, nodding.

"That's somethin' else, man."

"Thank you." Cas takes a step away from Dean, once he realizes how close they're standing. Cas can nearly feel Dean's breath on him. He looks at Dean, almost aching to be closer. He looks past Dean, to a box lying on the floor. “I have something to show you.” He makes the decision while he says it.

The box is halfway under his bed, so he pulls it out. Dean crouches down beside him, close enough that Cas can feel the heat coming off Dean through his clothes. _Oh._ It dawns on Cas that he forgot his shirt. Too late, now. He takes the lid off the box.

There’s a photograph lying on top, with one corner torn off and browning with age. The back reads _’Castiel was here’_. The photo itself is really nothing special: Castiel, just barely thirteen, standing in the middle of Eden. The fountain behind him glistens in the morning light. A bumblebee whizzes by his right ear, blurring in mid-flight. The plants around him block out the harshest of the sun’s rays. Cas’ trenchcoat is creased from it’s lack of use, and it hangs off him like he’s trying to drown himself in it’s folds. In his left hand, between his middle and ring fingers, sits a cigarette that is left permanently half-burning. A trail of smoke follows from Castiel’s lips up to the sky.

The photograph is grainy, focusing more on Castiel’s cigarette than on the boy himself.

“I was thirteen.” Castiel explains. He takes a deep breath, one that doesn’t quite reach the bottom of his lungs. “This was the first time I ever disobeyed.” Dean takes the photo from him. The light dances across the ring on his finger.

”Look at you, Angel Man falling from grace.” Dean shakes his head. “Your mom must have been thrilled.” His comment is met only with silence. “Yeah, I remember my first time. I was out back in some trailer park in Texas, out near where Charlie lives, yeah? This chick named Ruby always had a pack on her. I think I burned a hole in my shoe when I put it out, but don’t tell anyone.”

”Your secret is safe with me.” Castiel feels a tingling of irony at the back of his head. Dean looks at the photo again.

”This is…” Dean starts, but he never finishes his thought. “Thank you, Cas.”

Dean’s eyes are bright green and shining with something tender that Cas has only seen a handful of times before. The sides of his eyes are creased with laugh lines. Cas’ fingertips tingle. Dean’s lips look smooth, and they shine where he’s licked them dry. Cas wonders how they’d feel.

”I have more.”

”More photos?”

”Yes.”

Dean scoots next to Castiel, leaning back on the bed frame. He folds his hands in his lap, patient. There are freckles spattered across Dean’s nose, Cas notices for the first time. Dozens of freckles. Castiel has the inane desire to count them all.

”Alright, shoot.” Dean gestures for Cas to go on. _Right. The photos._

Cas folds his legs cross-legged beside Dean, setting the box down between his knees. The glossy photos in the box wait patiently for him. He looks back up, at the windows. Light is streaming in, making the dust particles in the air shine. Goosebumps prickle on Cas’ arm, though he barely notices them. Cas swallows; it does not go down easy.

”Throughout my life,” Cas starts, stroking his thumb over the edge of one of the photographs. “I have spent my life in various hospitals, for various amounts of time. During my stays, I have met many people. Although most of them have turned out to be very temporary people, some… Some have not.” He takes out the first photograph, dated nearly seven years ago: a long hallway, with two people in the frame. In the front, stands a short boy in nothing but a hospital gown, with slicked-back hair the color of wheat. He’s grinning and munching on a half-melted candy bar. Behind him a few feet, a dusty-haired teenager leans against a wall. His scowl isn’t the only jarring thing about him: he has scrapes running down the side of his face, red and blotting, from his forehead down to his chin.

”This is Gabriel.” Castiel points to the boy with the candy bar. “We were both ten years old when we met. His older brother, Luke,” Cas points to the boy in the background, “was sixteen. Gabriel always said that Luke, whom he called Lucifer, never understood him. Luc never did what was best for him, he made all the wrong choices.

”But this story is about Gabriel. He was… Always getting into trouble. Once, he turned all of his nurses’ hands purple. To this day, I do not know how he got away with it. But he was an experience, to put it lightly. They had trouble at home. I never found out the details, but what I do remember was that Luc had always been the one to bring Gabe in for his appointments. He made every single one on time.

”I do admit,” Castiel sighs, squinting hard at the photo in his hands, “that there is not much I remember from my time with Gabriel and his brother. But Gabriel had a good soul, even if he was a bit mischevious. His brother, on the other hand…”

”Yeah?” Dean asks, scooting closer. Cas shuts his eyes for a long moment, marvelling in the tenebrous colors he can see behind his eyelids.

”When Gabriel died, I had already been discharged, but I was still visiting him every so often. So naturally, when I come to find out he had passed, I was as distraught as a ten-year-old could be. But Luc, well… I remember standing outside in the hallway,” Cas points to the picture again. “The next thing I knew, Luc was being taken out of the room by force. That was the last I saw of him. Two nurses had to be taken to the ER.”

Castiel hands the photo over to Dean, who stares at it for a long moment. He looks like he’s trying to find something else in the photograph, something that Castiel didn’t tell him. He puts it aside, though, laying it in front of him.

The next time Castiel reaches into the box, he pulls out two photos and holds them close to his chest.

”I get the feeling that you would have liked my friend Anna.” Cas says. “I was twelve when she was fourteen. She was independent, to say the least. I believe she had a record for breaking the most hospital rules in the least amount of time. At least, that is what she told me.

”She spent most of her time in the playground around the back of the hospital. There was an old oak tree she would always sit under, she said it understood her. On the first day that we met, she had been smoking and creating art under that very tree. She told me that shooting stars were cigarette butts that the angels threw away so God wouldn’t catch them.

”Anna was very,” Castiel stops, tasting his words, “Influential. She often told me she didn’t understand why I followed so many orders. And in turn, I told her I didn’t understand why she didn’t.

”There was one night she snuck into my room, sketchbook in tow. She sat on the edge of my bed until sunrise, and we…” Castiel stops, feeling suddenly very far away. He remembers the rustle of leaves through the window, the way the moon watched the two of them together on Cas’ bed. He can almost feel the scratchy hospital blanket under his hands. And Anna’s art, charcoal and pastel, taking his breath away every time she turned a page.

Cas flips one of the photos over: it’s grainy, like it was taken with a cell phone camera in the dark; A page in a sketchbook, covered in muted shades of brown and blue and red. A young girl with bright red hair, beside a younger boy with a sad, sunken look in his eyes. They are both smiling. They are both exhausted. Underneath them, a signature: Anna Milton.

”We sat. We existed. She passed a few days later,” Cas continues, “I will admit there was much about her I still do not understand. But, regardless, when she passed, I went out to the playground, and I saw…” He flips the next picture: a crushed pack of Marlboros sitting at the base of an old tree. A single purple flower is springing up out of the carton.

Dean reaches out for the photos. Cas hesitates before handing them over. But Dean puts them down next to the first photo with the same amount of care. Cas feels his lungs shake. He takes out three more photos, the last three. Each one is heavier than the last in his hands. His chest feels the weight of both his words and his silence, now. This last story is begging to be told.

”When I was thirteen, I met Samandriel.” He turns over the first photograph: a boy just starting on the race through puberty, with a chipper grin across his face and not a single hair on his head. He’s in a red and white striped shirt with a nametag that says Alfie. “We had known each other since we were very young; our mothers went to church together. But it wasn’t until we were both in the hospital at the same time that we really got acquainted.

”Samandriel was…” The past tense hurts Cas in a way he had all but forgotten. “Everyone loved him. That was just a fact. He was very kind. I do not think there was a single day that passed when I did not see him smiling. He was a writer, too. I was in recovery for an appendectomy, and he would visit my room as often as he could. We would write together, share stories. We visited each other outside of the hospital, too. That was the first time I ever really had someone. We spent much of our time in Eden.” And the second photograph comes out: two boys standing in Eden, both with their arms around the other’s shoulders. Samandriel has a blue rosary hanging around his neck, and Castiel has his new trenchcoat on. Samandriel has a peach fuzz layer of hair, now. Castiel’s face is flushed.

A blush creeps up on Cas. He remembers how only a moment earlier had Samandriel’s lips been planted firmly on his own. He remembers just how warm the boy had always been, how comfortable. Castiel remembers feeling very much alive that day.

”If he was scared, he never showed it. The only time I heard him discuss dying was when he talked of heaven.”

”Was it the cancer, then?” Dean asks. Castiel shakes his head.

”No.” Cas swallows. “There was a car accident, on the way home one day. Samandriel was in the front seat.” A lump bursts in Cas’ throat and he feels hot, hot tears in his eyes. “Forgive me.” He turns away from Dean. Cas’ eyes sting. Oh, God, the sunlight gleaming off of the car windshield is something Cas could never forget. People do have an awful lot of blood in them. It’s much more striking when it’s laid out all across the street.

Dean’s hand is on Cas’ shoulder again, steady and so very warm.

”When he died, I… Everywhere I turned, there was mourning. I couldn’t escape it. It made me realize that I did not want anyone to feel that way because of me, I wouldn’t be able to handle it.” Castiel feels like the weight of an entire ocean has drained out of him. “I did not want to cause any more pain.”

The third and final photograph is turned over: two children, sitting on the front steps of a church, one boy and one girl. They both have dark hair and bright eyes. The girl, Hael, has a yellow jacket over her blue dress, and one leg in a cast. Castiel is, as always, in his trenchcoat, with a red hoodie underneath. His arm is in a sling and he has scabs down his cheek. A few drops of rain darken the church steps.

”This is Samandriel’s sister, Hael, and I the day of Samandriel’s funeral.” This photo Dean doesn’t touch for a long moment.

”Do you ever talk to them any more? I mean, talk to Hael?”

”Yes. We will write letters on occasion. But it is… Nothing, compared to what Samandriel and I were.”

Castiel looks over to his desk, where a dozen or more letters have been sorted and organized in the drawers. He blinks, looking back to Dean. Dean is absently twirling the ring on his finger, staring down at the photograph in front of Castiel.

Dean sits, looking over all the photographs that have been laid out. Castiel sits, looking at Dean.

”You’re really somethin’ else, aren’t you?” Dean asks. Castiel gets the feeling he should not answer.

”You may consider this an early birthday gift, if you’d like,” Cas tells him.

”Shit, yeah, that’s right.” Dean looks away from the photos. “I totally forgot.” This surprises Cas.

”I do not see how. Sam hasn’t stopped mentioning it.” Dean smiles.

”Yeah, he would.” Dean says, thinking for a moment. “I dunno, I guess it’s never been that important to me.” He smiles again; Cas never wants him to stop smiling. The feeling hits Cas in a very real way.

But then he feels a weight on his eyes, as if someone was pulling down a blind. Beside him, Dean slumps and stifles a yawn.

”What d’you say we get some shut eye, huh?” Dean offers. Cas bristles, sitting up straighter.

”I slept yesterday.” Cas defends.

”C’mon, dude, even angels need their beauty sleep.” Dean insists. Cas tilts his head.

”Biblically, angels have no need for sleep. They do nothing but sing praises to the Lord our God.”

Dean sighs. “Dude.”

And then Cas sighs. “Very well. If you would like to take the bed, I would be happy to--”

”Hell no, dude, you’re comin’ with me.” Dean sounds insistent. Something in Cas’ sleepy heart shudders. He swallows, standing up on shaky legs. Dean stands up next to him, stretching and scratching at his stomach. Without warning, Dean strips his shirt off and tosses it on top of his duffel bag in the corner. Cas looks away. His face is hot. “Now we’re even.” Cas looks back at the boy, who gestures to Cas’ bare torso.

Being shirtless in front of Dean Winchester is a much different experience when Dean himself is also sans shirt. Dean is not lean, Cas notices, possessing a very square figure. He has more than a few scars littering his chest and abdomen. Absently, Cas rubs a spot across his own lower stomach.

”I know I’m not as pretty as you, but didn’t your mother ever teach you that staring’s rude?” Dean asks, looking Cas up and down. Cas forgets how to breathe. If he ever really knew how. “That uh,” Dean points to the sharp line running across Cas’ right hip. “what’s that from?” Cas runs his finger across the scar again, wanting very much for it to be Dean’s hand instead.

”My appendix. From when I met Samandriel.” Cas explains. When Dean looks at Cas again, it’s as if the bags under his eyes grew darker in an instant.

”I see.” Perhaps the most stilted sentence Dean has ever said to him. Cas blinks. Dean blinks. “Well, let’s get to it then.”

The bed creaks when Dean flops down on it. Cas follows suit, gentler. Dean wiggles around on the mattress for a moment before tucking one arm under his head and facing Castiel. _He is handsome,_ Cas thinks. One of Dean’s arms is tucked under the pillow, the other falls over his side and hangs there, knuckles brushing the blankets. His whole body loosens when he sighs. Cas lies on his back, shifting his shoulders towards Dean.

The bed creaks again as Deana adjusts. Then the silence settles in, resting like a blanket over the two boys. Cas is surprised at how full Dean makes his house feel. The silence is not empty with them.

”Hey Cas?” Dean mumbles, more into his arm than anywhere else. Cas turns his head.

”Yes?”

”Tell me a story.”

”What kind of a story?”

”A bedtime story, duh,” Dean chuckles.”

”I…” Cas starts. “I do not know any.”

”Make one up, then.”

Cas thinks for a moment. His thoughts go down to the photographs spread out of the floor. There was a story that Anna told him once, about angels in heaven. He tells this to Dean.

”There was once an angel.”

”Wow, creative.” Dean jabs. Castiel ignores him.

”There was once an angel,” Cas repeats, “who, one day, decided to come down to earth. He had never been down before, only watched passively from up in heaven. He had always been curious, however. Curious about who the humans were, why God was so keen on protecting them.

”They say that it only took a single day, perhaps even a single instant, for the angel to realize he wanted to stay. Down here on Earth, there was so much more. If there was one thing that most angels did not understand, it was humanity. But this angel, he was different. Down on Earth, he saw so many beautiful things: he saw color, and life, and poetry. Everything the angel did not know that he wanted, until it was there in front of him.

”And so he fell. He had his grace taken from him and he tumbled down to earth. But this didn’t hurt him. No, it did quite the opposite. The angel fell in love with humanity. One human in particular. He was a man, a man who sat down and showed the angel everything that humanity had to offer. All of the laughter, and the love. The way to make choices, even if they are ultimately the wrong ones. He was very special to the angel, until the end of their days. And then, the angel followed the man up to heaven, to welcome him home.”

Castiel had not told that story once since Anna had told it to him all those years ago. He can almost smell the freshly mowed grass on his shoes, the medicine-and-Marlboros-and-flowers that Anna always smelled like. And something else, something musty and warm.

Dean has fallen asleep beside him. Cas is grateful, he realizes as he feels a warm tear sliding down his cheek. He flicks it away.

Before Cas lies down, before he cans top himself, he leans over and presses his lips to the middle of Dean’s forehead. In his sleep, Dean smiles. When Cas pulls away, he feels like his lips are burning in the very best way.


	14. Cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back in the swing of things! So you know what that means, more updates!  
> Question for my readers: do the texting conversations take away from the story, or do you like them? Let me know! Shoot me a message or a tumblr ask (dragongem.tumblr.com)
> 
> Slight chapter warning for alcohol, otherwise no specific warnings apply.

If Dean could have his way, his birthday would have come and gone without so much as a mention. But of course, he has no such luck. Being related to Sam will do that to you.

Dean’s day starts with Gabe clawing holes in his favorite t-shirt, and Sam handing him a plate stacked with three slices of French toast. In the middle of his third slice, Dean feels a warm hand clamp down on his shoulder. He almost chokes.

”Happy birthday, kid.” John’s voice, still rough with sleep, comes from behind him. Dean swallows thickly, his throat coated in syrup.

”Thanks, Dad.” Dean wants to say more, but he blames the syrup. It’s as good an excuse as any.

John doesn’t say anything else before leaving. Dean digs into his food again after a long beat of silence.

”Eat up, Dean!” Sam is urging him. Sam’s got his sleeves rolled up to the elbows and is scrubbing the dirty frying pan with an even dirtier towel. “Can’t have you late to school on your birthday!”

”You want me to go so bad, Sammy, you can drive,” Dean says, laughing through another bite. He just misses a glob of dish soap landing on his plate.

But sure enough, Dean is ready to go out the door in ten minutes time. The wind hits him full force, slamming the door shut behind him on the way out. _God damn_ , he thinks. Sam is nearly head-butting him from behind to get into the car. Dean zips his jacket up another inch.

The car heater rattles full-blast and Sam sings every rendition of the birthday song he can think of before Dean turns into the middle school parking lot.

”If I hear that damn song one more time, Sammy,” Dean swears, “I’ll--”

”You’ll what? AC/DC me to death?”

”You’re damn right I will.”

Dean tries to noogie his brother with one hand, but Sam’s too quick to hop out. _Was he ever wearing a seatbelt?_

”Don’t forget, the Harvelles are coming over after school!” Sam says before slamming the door. Baby shakes in the cold.

 

Dean nearly starts praying when no one mentions his birthday during Shop. _Can you pray when nothing happens?_ He wonders. He figures Cas will know.

There’s a test in his English class, and he’s surprised when he breezes through it. All those metaphors Cas talked him through, he’s sure. Both him and Cas finish their tests early, so they spend the rest of the time passing notes in the journal Dean gave him for Christmas. Dean is real tempted to flip back and look through the other pages Cas has written in, but he doesn’t. Cas would show him if it were important enough. They fill up a good two pages with their conversation, including a stick-figure Castiel from Dean.

When they get up to leave, Cas gives him a long hug. He’s warmer than usual, or maybe that’s just Dean.

There’s a longstanding Winchester-Harvelle tradition that starts after school on anyone’s birthday. Everyone crowds around in the Winchester’s tiny kitchen, with the birthday kid sitting at the head of the table. This year, Cas tagged along, too. Ellen carries in a small, homemade cake and sets it down in front of Dean. Jo punches him in the shoulder.

Castiel follows Jo’s suit with two presents in hand, although he hands one off to Dean and one to Sam.

”I apologize,” Castiel looks away, bashful. “I didn’t know when Sam’s birthday was.”

”Hey, no problem,” Dean reassures him, “Right Sammy?” Sam gives him a thumbs up.

”Right!”

”Alright, boys, settle down,” Ellen says, giving them all her best mom-look. Castiel is the only one who bristles, the other two just settle down. Dean gives Cas a look. Cas nods.

John stumbles in, nodding to Ellen with a beer in hand. She pops it open and takes a swig. He hands Dean a cream soda, and he must have gotten it on the way home from work since it’s still cold.

Sam fishes out a pack of matches and a box of candles from the drawer and hands them off to Ellen. Cas helps her light them. Dean watches, his eyes fixed on how carefully Cas holds each candle, how meticulously he places it on the cake.

Everyone sits down, Cas at Dean’s right and Sam at Dean’s left. Jo gives him a look that he ignores. Sam cuts the first slice of cake for Dean. It’s not as good as Bobby’s cake, but nothing’s ever as good as Bobby’s cake. Even John, who hates sweets, takes up a slice. Cas is staring at his cake with a distant expression. Dean’s heart squeezes.

”Have a bite,” he insists, “For me.”

”Yes, I am--” Cas is interrupted by Dean shoving a forkful directly into his open mouth. Cas freezes. His lips close around the fork slowly. Dean feels the fork steady as Cas swallows.

Right, breathing. That should be happening about now.

Dean looks away at last, taking the fork with him. Just in time for Jo to shove a present under his nose. Dean winces when she drops it on the table.

”This one’s from Cas!” The gift is wrapped in shiny blue paper. Dean runs his hands over it, trying to figure out what it is without opening it.

”Hurry it up,” Sam chides. Dean sticks out his tongue. The paper crinkles under his hand.

Inside is a stack of CDs, and a palm-sized journal with the same type of leather binding as the notebook he got Cas for Christmas. He flips open the front cover: a tiny _Castiel was here_ is written on the inside. He closes it again; the look he’s getting from Cas tells him he should wait. The CDs are all new, not stolen from thrift store like all his others. _Metallica,_ _Kansas_ , and _Aerosmith_.

Dean looks over to Cas. His hair is stuck up at an odd angle. Something about him overwhelms Dean with the urge to reach out and touch, as if their proximity now isn’t enough. He slings an arm around Cas’s shoulder.

”You’re the best.” It still doesn’t feel like enough. He feels the heat coming off of Cas through his shirt. But he shrugs the feeling off. “Sam’s next, then?”

Cas, as it turns out, got Sam some old books. They’re too worn for Dean to read the cover properly from where he’s sitting. Brown and a dull green, both cracking like they haven’t been touched in years. Dean thinks Sam’s smile is the best present of them all.

Dean looks around the table, very aware that Jo is staring at him hard.

”You’ve still got another one comin’.” She tells him, holding out an envelope.

It’s an old envelope that’s been creased at least a dozen times, with his name is scrawled across it. He takes it, looking from Jo to her mother.

The only thing inside is a very large handful of bills. Dean looks up.

”The hell is this?”

”It’s for you!” Jo says, eyes twinkling.

”Yeah, but… What?” Dean doesn’t understand. He looks at all the other table guests. Cas is just a clueless as him, and Sam has that smug eyebrow raise that makes Dean want to shove his face into the whole rest of the cake.

”We all decided to pitch in,” Ellen answers, gesturing to Sam and John.

”What for?”

”Charlie.” Jo says, “You’re gonna drive down to visit her on the eighth.”

Dean drops the envelope.

”You can’t be serious.” February eighth, that’s the Moondoor tournament. “This is fantastic!” Dean springs up. He plants a kiss on Ellen’s temple before going around the table and kissing Jo and Sam on the forehead. He grabs both sides of Cas’ face and kisses him on the bottom of his nose, right next to his lips.

Dean freezes. His hands fall back to their sides. Cas has turned bright red, looking up at Dean without moving a muscle. Dean sits back down with a _thunk_. But one glance at the envelope on the table, and he’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.

”We were gonna get you a plane ticket,” Sam finally speaks up, “but we all know how you’d feel about that.”

”Shut the fuck up,” Dean rolls his eyes. He feels some of the tension bleed out from his shoulders. He turns back to the Harvelle’s, clapping his hands together. “I seriously… I can’t thank you guys enough.”

”Dean, come on. It was Mrs. Bradbury’s idea, anyway. I think she wants to see you more than Charlie does!” Jo says.

”Jesus,” Dean says, scrubbing his face with his palm. He turns the envelope over in his hands again; he’s glad it’s heavy, otherwise he wouldn’t believe it’s real.

_Beep-beep, beep-beep_. A watch alarm goes off. Jo swears, twiddling with her watch until the beeping stops.

She turns to Dean. “I’ve gotta go.” The look in her eyes says _piano rehearsal_ and that’s all Dean needs to know.

There’s a gust of cold that creeps in when they leave.

”And then there were four,” Sam whispers ominously. The clink of John’s wedding ring against his now empty can of beer echoes. John finishes his drink and leaves the room. Sam gives Dean a grimace before burying himself in his new books.

Dean looks down at the table: half the cake remains uneaten, and some of the bills are falling out of the envelope. He looks over to Cas, who’s sitting with his hands in his lap, like he’s waiting for something. Dean nudges him, cocking his head towards his bedroom. Cas scoops up the journal and the CDs and follows Dean.

Dean has to hit the CD player a few times to get it to open, but once it does he drops _Metallica_ into the CD slot. He makes a place for the envelope on his dresser, on top of the rapidly growing pile of letters from Charlie. Dean hits the CD player again, and the music finally starts.

”So, Dean,” Cas starts, moving some clothes off of Dean’s bed before taking a seat. “Did you have a good birthday?”

”Hell yeah,” Dean says, flopping down on the bed next to Cas. “I can’t wait to see Charlie, haven’t seen her since…” He does the math, “Fuck, last June or so.” Cas shifts his position, his hand resting on Dean’s ankle. Dean sits up and scoots closer. Cas’ hand doesn’t move.

Dean looks at him, pursing his lips. _Cas oughta understand._ He thinks. There’s something buzzing in Dean’s chest that’s ready to get out. “Hey Cas, can I… Talk t’you about something?”

”Of course.” Cas furrows his brow a little. Dean swallows, but he knows he’s grinning already.

”Okay.” Dean takes a deep breath, not looking away from Cas. “I’m so fuckin’ stoked to see Charlie!” The buzz in his chest turns to a boil. “I mean, the way money’s been lately, with Sam’s glasses and all my school shit, I figured I wouldn’t be seeing her ‘til at least next summer. And now I get to see her in a few weeks, and it’s just in time for the tournament! Oh man, Cas. I’m fuckin’ thrilled!” Cas only tilts his head. “Shit, right. Sorry, do you know what LARPing is?” Cas shakes his head. Dean catches himself grinning again. “Well you’re in for it now.”

”So, LARPing stands for Live-Action Role Playing. A buncha people, teenagers, young adults, whoever. Everyone gets together and we dress up like, uh, like we’re really in the Kingdom of Moondoor and we’re bein’ invaded or whatever. They have a tournament every year in San Antonio, I used to go all the time when we lived down there. It’s seriously cool, Cas.”

”How did you get involved?” Cas perks up.

”Charlie and I started in middle school. She’s been the Queen of Moons for a couple years, since her mom had her accident.” They don’t like to talk about the accident much. Dean is glad Cas doesn’t ask. “I think Gilda’s in on it this season, too. That picture there--” he points to the one of him and Charlie in armor, “was from last summer. It’s a year round thing, but in February they always have tournaments. One year there was a bunch of rain, man, and it took two weeks to get all the stains out. Mr. Bradbury was _pissed_.” Dean smiles fondly at the memory. Cas smiles fondly at him. Dean didn’t realize Cas had been rubbing circles on his ankle until he stops. There it is again, that tug at the bottom of Dean’s chest telling him to get _closer_. He feels it run like electricity up from his ankle where Cas is touching him, straight to his spine and back down. Dean puts his hand over Cas’.

”Shit, I’m sorry, man. I’m probably boring you with all this.”

Cas looks startled and frankly offended. “Quite the contrary, Dean.” He insists, “It reminds me of writing stories with Alfie.”

”Yeah, exactly!” Dean’s hand squeeze’s Cas’s. “You can live those stories, literally.” He tips his head back. “Fuck, I gotta take you some time. You could be a knight or something.”

”I would enjoy that very much.”

Dean drops his gaze back to Castiel. They’re both smiling.

”You… You really are the best, Cas.”

 

Eventually, Cas gets a call from Adra that he needs to head home. Before he leaves, he pulls Sam aside to ask him something that Dean doesn’t quite catch. Dean drives Cas back home, chatting all the way. He feels like they’ll never run out of things to say.

Back at home, Dean checks his phone to find a dozen new texts, mostly from Charlie.

Happy birthday dean!!!

I hope its kick-ass! Jo told me she’s planning something special.

I asked her about it but she wouldn’t tell me! Rude.

Why does she have to be so cute? Dang. Even Gilda says she’s cute.

Although that isn’t saying much, Gilda thinks everyone’s cute. Even you :P gross.

hell yea my day was kickass!

Rad! What sorta loot did you rake in this year? No more porn, I hope! You’ll run out of socks.

haha :P i dont need porn 4 tht anyway. n i got some cds from cas

Aaaand? I didn’t slave over texting Jo for a week for you to not tell me!

I get 2 see u in 2 weeks!

Charlie calls him just to scream “Hell yeah!” in his ear and hang up.

Solo and Leia are back!

wats ur dog got to do with this?

Shut up! Or you’re sleeping on the floor!

yes maam!

For Moondoor!

for moondoor!


	15. Interlude Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED 11 DECEMBER 2014
> 
> So, this is the final chapter that needs to be edited before I can start the process of NEW CHAPTERS being published!
> 
> Chapter warnings for talk of running away, homelessness, and attending a Catholic church mass.

Sunday mornings are usually pretty quiet in the Winchester household. Dad never works, and Dean always sleeps in before Jo, Ash, and Castiel come over. But since Dean’s in Texas for the weekend, house is feels abnormally quiet.

Sam brushes his hair three times before opening his closet door. He wipes his hands on his boxers, leaving a dark smudge of sweat.

 _Are jeans too casual?_ He worries, wiping his hands again. _Last time I was in a church was…_ he looks at the calendar hanging above his desk. It’s February ninth. _Must have been six years ago._ Sam shakes his head. He scans his bookshelf for a copy of the Bible, his eyes stopping briefly on the newspaper clipping he hasn’t had the chance to hang up.

He finds no Bible, so instead he digs into his closet for a nice shirt to wear. The one he picks out is a light blue and buttons up, so it doesn’t get caught on his glasses, which happens a lot. he runs a hand through his hair. _I should remember_ something _about mass._

Before he can look into it, his phone buzzes from across the room; A new text from Castiel, then immediately another.

I’m very glad you and Charlie are enjoying yourselves.

Oh! I apologize, Sam, that was meant for Dean.

Sam shakes his head.

Thats so not fair! Dean hasnt texted me all weekend!

I will let him know how you feel. Are you almost ready to go? We should be leaving shortly.

Sam looks around the room one more time. He sniffs.

Ready as ill ever be, yeah.

He leaves his room, flicking the light off behind him. Out in the kitchen, heat is rolling off the furnace in waves. Sam wonders how the weather is in San Antonio; he hopes it’s warm enough for them.

John’s bedroom door is shut tight and there’s no light shining under it. Sam pauses. There’s a pen and a blank pad of paper on the kitchen table. _John won’t really wonder where I am, right?_ he thinks. Silence hangs in front of him. He hears John shift in his sleep and snore. _No, of course not._

A few minutes later, there’s a short knock at the door. Sam’s pulse beats in his throat. He yanks the door open with a little too much force. His hands start shaking, but he blames the cold.

Castiel is standing in the doorway, his cheeks pink from the cold. He has a blue scarf wrapped around his neck and he’s wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt that Sam is sure he’s seen on Dean before.

”Hello, Sam,” Cas says. His eyes crinkle when he smiles.

”G’morning, Castiel,” Sam reaches out to shake his hand. Castiel takes Sam’s hand between both of his own.

”Are you ready to go?” He asks. Sam swallows.

”Yeah.” He leaves the door locked behind him and follows Cas to the car.

There’s a woman with graying hair and a red scarf sitting in the front seat. It’s been a while since Sam’s seen anyone but Dean next to Cas in the car.

”Good morning, Sam.” The woman smiles when she talks. Her eyes look heavy in the same was Castiel’s do.

”Good morning, Mrs. Novak.” Sam guesses.

”Miss.” She turns away and starts up the engine. Good thing, too, Sam can already feel the cold creeping in.

The church they park at is only a few minutes down the road. It’s made of stone and there are three steps up to the front door. _This is where Jim is Pastor,_ Sam remembers. The inside of the church seems untouched by the drab, freezing world outside: the ceilings are high and made of archways. Angels kneeling around the altar shine yellow in the artificial light. Candles flicker in the corners. Above the altar is a man in red sitting on a cloud. Something in his stare makes Sam feel very, very small. Beneath the altar, Pastor Jim is kneeling, his head bowed in prayer. Sam feels something rise in his throat.

Castiel follows Sam into a pew. Sam shifts a little on the wooden seat. Cas kneels down, closing his eyes and drawing his eyebrows together. He prays in silence. Sam kneels down, too. He doesn’t pray a word. It’s as if all his words are caught in the lump in his throat.

A bell chimes. Everyone takes their seat, many prayers left unfinished.

As far as Sam can tell, the church ceremony itself it pretty standard. He doesn’t know any words to the songs, but by the looks of it, Castiel doesn’t either. Sam notices a couple of times when Cas pulls his phone out of his pocket to send a quick text or two. _That’s probably bad form_ Sam thinks. It makes something settle uneasily in his stomach, so he just turns his attention back to the sermon.

After a particularly touching passage, Jim steps up to the microphone.

”This passage,” he starts, eyeing the very small crowd of people that have shown up today, “is about love. It is not about loving your neighbor even if they’re different from you; it is about loving your neighbor _because_ they are different from you. Recognizing that your friends and neighbors are of a different color, or creed, or lifestyle, this is important. This is fundamental.” His eyes stop scanning when they reach a little to the left of Sam.

”Many churches today will try to tell you to love the sinner and hate their sins. But that is not what God would want for them, no. You can not love someone until you accept them entirely, for all their differences and all their faults. The other day, a beloved friend of mine came to me and told me that she is getting married.” A few ‘aww’s ripple through the crowd. “She asked me if I would be the one to bless their union, and I agreed right out. But she still seemed afraid, like there was something else.” Sam feels Castiel tense beside him. “She told me her partner was a woman.” A murmur goes through the crowd. “And I told her,” he pauses, giving a smile to the same place, just to the left of Sam. To Castiel. “I told her the same thing I tell everyone before their wedding. That love is very brave. That loving someone, even in time like these that may seem very dark, that is what makes us more than human. That is where God is. God is love, and love can be the beacon that guides us through life, no matter who or what is at the end of it, be it man, woman, or otherwise. And love can never be wrong.”

The church melts into applause. A woman in the front row wipes her eyes. Sam watches Castiel practically melt back into his seat, as if something big and heavy has been washed from him. Sam wonders who it is he’s texting, the next time Cas pulls out his phone.

The rest of the procession goes smoothly, Sam thinks. He doesn’t have a lot of experience in that area, anyway. When Castiel and Adra walk up to get the Eucharist, Sam stays behind. He watches them walk down the aisle. Castiel’s posture all but disappears, until he’s nearly swimming in his trenchcoat. The lights make harsh shadows across his body. Sam only has to take one look to understand how small Castiel must feel. He understands, sitting in the empty wooden pew himself. _I guess that’s just how you’re supposed to feel._ He always wondered why Dean never liked coming to church with him.

Once everyone’s back in their seats, Pastor Jim says a few words, thanking everyone for coming. The churchgoers take a few minutes to collect their belongings and bow to the altar before heading out the door. Pastor Jim waits outside in the cold to shake everyone’s hand as they go past.

Stepping outside into the nipping cold feels like a breath of fresh air for Sam. Jim shakes his hand warmly.

”Sam, how are you?” He asks, friendly.

”Cold,” Sam answers honestly, earning a chuckle. “But I’m well. Yeah, thank you, Father.” The pastor turns to Castiel and his face lights up.

”Castiel, my friend. It’s been a while since we’ve seen you around.” Castiel only stares at his feet.

”I am sorry, Father.”

”Please. So long as you’re doing well?”

”Yes.”

Sam feels like he’s missing something. Castiel looks his way with very sad eyes. He wishes Dean were here, he would understand.

The pastor goes off to greet another family. Adra turns to the boys. “Would you like to spend some time here, or should we get going?” Sam’s about to say he’d like to leave, but Cas is already agreeing to stay for a few minutes. He gestures for Sam to follow him.

Sam shivers when he walks, the cold latching onto any bare skin it can find. There’s a short stone path to the graveyard behind the church. After crunching over long-dead leaves for a few minutes, Sam asks what exactly they’re doing.

”Oh,” Cas stops, as if he just realized Sam may not know. “I am sorry, Sam. After mass, I enjoy spending some time here.” He gestures to the headstones around them. One of them has a flower pot laying on it’s side in front of it. Sam rushes over to put it right-side up. “It is very peaceful.” There’s a gust of wind that kicks up some leaves into a small tornado. The sunlight shines a cold blue haze over everything. “I haven’t been here in a long time. I hope you do not mind.” Castiel coughs.

”No, no, it’s alright,” Sam insists, shaking his head. “I understand. I haven’t been to a real church since I was seven, and even then…” Cas looks at him.

”It is fascinating. Watching how we honor the people who had been close to us, once they pass. We immortalize them in stone, but even then that’s not enough, we feel like we still have to…” Castiel gestures to the flower pot. Sam looks closer at the headstone: _Samandriel Alphonse Delacroix._ He only died a few years ago. Sam wonders who he had been. “And humanity is so…” He pauses, looking for just the right word. “Empathetic. I will never get tired of watching.”

”You know what? You get it.” Sam declares. “I don’t know what exactly it is, but you get it, Cas. You understand that thing about life.”

Castiel’s face softens, growing even pinker.

”Thank you, Sam.” He speaks with sincerity.

Sam looks out across the graveyard. An old weeping willow sways in the breeze. Something about it’s dull green leaves are familiar, though Sam can’t quite place why.

”When I was younger, I would run away a lot. Maybe once a year, if that.” Sam starts. He keeps staring at the willow. “Last summer, we were in the middle of nowhere, out in Colorado. I was gonna go insane, being stuck with Dean and John for weeks on end. You know how Dean can be, and it’s only worse when Dad’s actually around. So, I packed up a duffel bag and left.

”There was a bus station a few miles away, but by the time I got there the buses to Bobby’s weren’t running ‘til the morning. I had to spend a night in this shady bus station, all alone. Well, mostly alone. I had met someone that night. Her name was Meg, she was a few years older than me. I think she was even older than Dean, but I dunno. Said she was trying to get to California by the end of the summer, a fresh start. I told her I was going to my uncle’s and she just laughed.” Sam remembers Meg, in her dusty brown jacket and the clunky headphones around her neck. She smelled like cheap coffee and danger and the road. “We were stuck in that bus station together until morning. And we, I don’t know, we just talked. There was something about her. I just talked and she looked like she got it. Kinda like you. I’ll be honest, I even thought about going with her. But Dean found me the next morning and dragged me out. I never heard from her again.” Castiel looks very sad.

”I am--”

”Hang on, Cas. I’m not done yet,” Sam smiles. “Anyway, flash forward to Dean’s birthday this year. I’m flipping through the paper, like I do, and guess what I see?” Cas raises his eyebrows. “An article. Seventeen-year-old Megara Masters, given a full ride to some nursing program out in Cali. That night at the bus station, she had told me she was gonna find her cause and serve it. And I guess she did.” Meg’s eyes had been green.

Sam turns back to his friend, who’s pulling something out from under his shirt. His rosary, blue and glittering in the light. He passes it over to Sam, crucifix swinging like a pendulum. There are letters etched into the beads.

”’Castiel was here’,” Castiel answers Sam’s look. He closes both of his hands over Sam’s. The beads are warm to the touch.

”I can’t accept this.” Sam insists. His stomach churns. Guilt.

”You deserve them more than I do.” Sam stops.

He squeezes the beads and takes his hand out from between Castiel’s. The rosary gets stuck on his glasses when he puts it on. When he gets it on properly, it sways gold and blue against the greys and browns of the graveyard. It is beautiful, and it makes Sam feel pretty beautiful, too.


	16. Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is a Huge Fucking Dork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: fantasy/medieval violence, mentions of animal abuse, mentions of death and smoking

Dean considers knocking for all of three seconds on his way up to the door, before he just barges in and announces, “I’m home!” as loud as he can. _Thump, thump_ , Princess Leia bounds down the stairs to give Dean big, slobbery kisses. Dean barely has time to drop his bag before Leia’s covering his face with her tongue and wagging her tail hard enough for her butt to fall off.

”Alright, easy girl, easy,” Charlie coaxes, pulling Leia off him. “Save some for the rest of us.”

Leia whines and sits by the stairs, her tail thumping against the floor. Dean wipes his face off with his sleeve.

”Guess I shoulda seen that one coming.” He grins, crushing Charlie in a hug. “It’s good to see you, kiddo.” He pats her hair; she puts her chin on his shoulder. There’s a lot of squeezing.

”You got here okay?” She asks, holding him back at arm’s length. Neither of them can stop grinning long enough to say a whole lot.

”Hell yeah I did. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

”Is that Dean I hear?” Asks a voice from the kitchen.

”Sure is, Mrs. Bradbury!” He calls back.

”Well, don’t be a stranger! Come say hi to your dear old Momma!” She insists. Dean laughs. Charlie takes him by the hand and half-drags him into the kitchen.

Mrs. Bradbury is a plump woman, wearing an apron that’s covered in flour. Her wheelchair is right up next to the counter and she’s kneading a ball of dough with both hands. Dean leans over to kiss her cheek, careful to keep his toes from getting crushed.

”Pie’s almost done,” Mrs. Bradbury says. “I’m making your favorite!” Dean gives her another kiss, just for that.

”I knew there was a reason I keep coming back.”

”Thanks, asshole.” Charlie hits him over the head. “C’mon, I’ll take your stuff upstairs.”

The stairs creak more than Dean remembers them creaking. At the top of the stairs, Charlie makes a sharp left to get to her room. Dean follows close behind.

Her room, at least, is how Dean remembers it. Maybe there are a few more dirty clothes on the floor, but it still reeks of Charlie: at least three Lord of the Rings posters one autograph from William Shatner are hanging on the wall. Dean has to step over a blonde wig to get into the room properly. Charlie tosses Dean’s duffel bag onto the top bunk of her bed. The bottom bunk has been taken out to make room for her desk, which is covered in sticky notes and doodles.

Much like Dean’s dresser back home, Charlie’s dresser has tons of photos stuck on it. The first one Dean spots is one of him and Charlie, with Charlie up on his shoulders waving a rainbow flag above her head. Last year’s Pride.

”You remember that, doncha?” Charlie asks, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

”Sure do,” Dean muses. He probably still has glitter in his hair from the confetti cannon. “You gonna take Gilda this year?” They make eye contact in the mirror.

”Hell yeah I am. You should come with us!”

Dean winces. “We’ll see.” He means it. “Oh! I gotta text Sam and Cas, let ‘em know I got here in one piece.” Charlie unlatches herself from Dean.

”Tell Cas I say hi!”

Dean rolls his eyes.

got in fine i hope u n dad havent killed each other yet lmao

Thanks Dean really means a lot :P

hey cas i got to charlie’s safe and sound. she says hi

i miss you He types, then deletes it.

I’m glad to hear you got in alright. And hello, Charlie.

Dean really wants to say something else, but he puts his phone away. He turns to Charlie’s desk. Her laptop is sitting idle in a sea of sticky notes.

”Hey Chuck, how about a round of Bad Fic Bingo?”

She lights up. “Perfect. Dad made peanut butter balls the other day.”

Her hair swishes behind her as she goes down the stairs.

Bad Fic Bingo is a game the two of them started playing when they were about twelve and just discovering the perils of fanfiction. As they had soon discovered, finding quality fanfic is anything but easy, so they decided to make a game out of it.

”Okay, fandom?” Charlie asks, popping the lid off the Tupperware. Dean turns the laptop on and feels it vibrate against his thigh. They have to be careful not to elbow each other, sitting so close together on the bed. Leia is on the floor below them, whining.

”We did Lord of the Rings last time, how about Star Trek?”

”Hmm,” Charlie taps her chin, “Original Series? Next Gen? Reboot?”

”The entire reboot was a bad fic. Come on Chuck, we’d die of peanut butter overdose before the tournament!”

Charlie laughs. “We have three hours, we’ll be fine.” She tosses a ball up in the air; Dean catches it with his mouth.

”Man, you know who’d love these?” He asks through a mouthful of peanut butter, “Cas. He adores all these sweets, I think he got it from --” He swallows, not realizing what he was about to say. Charlie looks at him.

”Dad can give you the recipe, if you want.”

”Awesome.”

They do, in fact, wind up with stomach-aches after twenty minutes of Bingo. Who knew McCoy could say ‘dammit, Jim!’ so many times? And why are their eyes always orbs? _That’s pretty intimidating, honestly._

”Alright,” Charlie pushes herself up. Dean feels his stomach flip. “We need to get ready for battle!” Dean shoves his face into the pillow and groans. “No, get up!” Dean doesn’t move. Charlie shifts her tone. “Up, handmaiden!”

Sir Dean feels obligated to follow her order. He slides off of the bed and helps Charlie down after him.

Queen Charlie keeps her box of armor up in her closet. With some maneuvering, and more than a little swearing, Sir Dean manages to get it down without breaking anything. He gets his own armor out of the duffel bag he brought before helping Queen Charlie into hers. Her tunic has the Moondoor crest sewn over the breast pocket, and Sir Dean helps her put on a belt that he knows she doesn’t just use for holding her daggers. Her magic pouches are tucked away in the bag hanging by her hip. She’s nearly ready for battle, and soon so will be Sir Dean.

 

There’s a breeze wafting through the tent, making the sweat-slick hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up. The map on the table in front of him as been changed since he last saw it; he has to readjust. There’s a path through the Dark Forest that leads to the Fairy Realm that hadn’t been there before, and the Warriors of Yesteryear were moved closer to the front of the park. The princess of the Fairies, Lady Gilda, is known to join forces with Queen Charlie and the rest of Moondoor in battle, although the rest of the Fairfolk do as they please.

Sir Dean looks up from the table and at the Queen. Her crown is crooked, but her back is as straight as a rod and her eyes are steely. She thinks that the knights should strike at the front, but the Warriors should stay protected near the middle.

”Your Majesty,” one of the other knights in the room says. Sir Dean can’t remember his name. “what if we kept Sirs Posey and Roger--”

A buzz in Dean’s pocket.

The pouch doesn’t make a sound, but Dean feels it through the leather. A text. From Cas, no doubt.

 _Should I answer it?_ His phone feels heavy in his pocket. _No, Winchester, you have a job to do._

And yet…

”Sir Dean?” Charlie’s voice cuts through to him. “Sir Dean.” It’s more commanding this time. Sir Dean squares his shoulders.

”Yes, your Majesty?” He feels like he does when Mrs. Leonard calls on him during class.

”Would you like to make your speech now or later?”

Sir Dean grins so hard his face might split.

 

”They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom!” Dean belts in his final, heavy breath. Nerds of all ages are whooping and shouting, hoisting their swords and archery bows above their heads. There are Moondoor knights, a handful of Fairies, and even an Elf or two in the mix.

Sunlight shines at Dean from between the trees. Good lord, does his stringy wig itch. His face feels like it’s going to peel off under the red and white paint.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Charlie is holding her sword up, a little higher than the rest. Her crown looks like it’s made of sunlight. Beside her, Golda is in her usual purple dress with a belt of tiny, black beanbags around her waist.

In the distance, someone shoots a cannon. The three kids only have a second before they have to come face to face with the Shadow Orcs. The long time enemy of Moondoor, the Dark Forest’s warriors have most of their bodies painted gray, and horns protruding from their helmets. They’re easily the most threatening things in Moondoor. At least, they’re the ugliest.

Dean hurtles himself towards the nearest orc. He swings to the weak spot of his armor, just below the stomach. The orc winces, clutching his side. Grunting, he --

_Oomph._

Shit, shit. Dean’s back aches. _Fuck, did I get hit?_ His eyes swim with color. Fuck. Pain.

Shouting. Loud voices. Ringing eardrums. _Someone’s shouting_. Shadows pass in front of him. Boots churn up the dirt. Running. A voice. Charlie. Charlie’s voice.

”I’ll avenge you!”

More running. Dean opens his eyes. He didn’t realize they were shut.

There’s an elf standing a few yards away. He has dark skin and, from the looks of it, an offendingly good sword arm. Charlie’s shouting something as she goes in for him. Her Magic beanbag poofs, hitting the elf in the shoulder before plopping to the ground. She keeps whacking away at the elf.

Dean takes a deep breath. The air tastes like dirt. The heat of the battle rages on around him. Dean steadies himself into a squat. Charlie’s still going with the sword. Dean’s back throbs. A perfect rhythm. Whack, throb. Whack, throb.

Charlie’s next hit feels like it happens in slow motion. Her arm goes down as Dean sticks his leg out, hooking it around the elf’s ankle. He goes down with a heavy thud, sprawling. Dean uses it to spin himself up onto his feet. His back twinges. The elf laughs, holding out a hand.

”Excellent job, there.” He says; his voice is deep. Taking his hand, Dean helps him back up. The elf’s hands are warm. Sir Dean forgets himself. “Good work.” The elf takes a sweeping bow and leads himself out to the infirmary tent.

Charlie’s smile pisses Dean right off.

”Shut up.”

Charlie smiles again, before charging off elsewhere in the battle.

Dean’s back twinges. But there are a couple of elves still nearby, so he fights on.

It’s probably not the smartest idea for Dean to let out a loud yell when he’s trying to sneak up on someone. It earns him two beanbags in the back, right where he’s already aching. He goes down to his knees. _Damn it._

Some shadow orcs whoop and holler as he stumbles off to the infirmary tent. Dean’s throat feels like it’s doused in hot liquor. He gnashes his teeth all the way into the tent.

The flaps of the tent cough up a small cloud of dust when he goes in. There are already a few people laying on cots. Dean sees the elf from earlier sitting in the corner. His pocket suddenly feels very heavy.

He steals a swig of water from a sleeping orc’s canteen. The air in the tent is sticky. He swirls the water around in his mouth before swallowing. There’s quiet chatting throughout the tent. The handsome elf waves Dean over.

”Didn’t take long for the battle to best you, did it?” The elf asks, scooting aside to give Dean a seat.

”What’d you expect, with your aim?” Dean plops himself down next to the elf. “I’m Dean.” They shake hands.

”Henrickson, Victor.” He smiles. His eyes are as dark as his skin. Dean feels something stir in his chest. “I haven’t seen you around here before, you new?” His voice is deep. It reminds Dean of Cas.

”Nah,” Dean says, leaning back on his hands. It takes some of the pressure off his back. The hair from his wig falls over his shoulder; he wonders if this is how Sam’s head feels all the time. “The royal family and I go way back, but I live a few hours away. It was big for me to even get to come here.”

”Yeah, I understand.” Victor is nodding, adjusting one of his earrings. He’s looks like he’s least a year older than Dean. “And to have to leave so early, what a shame.” Dean wants to be disappointed, too, but he just chuckles.

”Just my luck, ain’t it?

Victor blinks slowly. Dean’s gut squeezes.

”So,” Dean says, “How’d you get into all this?”

It turns out to be a much longer, more complicated story than Dean anticipates. But he’s hanging on every word. He winds up laughing until he nearly hurts his back again. His pocket feels heavier than ever.

The battle takes the better part of an hour to finish. Sir Dean, after being revived by Gilda’s fairy magic, is used as witness to the signing of a treaty between Moondoor and the Dark Forest. He watches Queen Charlie scrawl her name at the bottom of the parchment, in the name of Moondoor. As soon as the treaty is signed, someone blows a horn and shouts _’Time!’_.

The whole world seems to relax. People shrug their cloaks off, untie their belts, whip off their hats. Charlie peels off her leather gloves, and Dean nearly rips his wig in half getting it off his head. Gilda, looking perfect as always, does nothing.

On the way back to the Impala, Dean spots Victor on his way out. He manage to make eye contact, but he waves.

”Maybe you’ll be back next year!” Victor calls to him across the parking lot. Dean turns red.

 

The brakes squeak when Dean pulls up to the curb in front of the diner.

”C’mon, baby, don’t be like that.” He coaxes the car, running his palms up and down the steering wheel.

”Dean, let’s face it. I know you’re in love with your car, but that’s a little weird.” Charlie says.

”Wow,” Dean mocks offended. “Right when I was gonna be a great brother and pay for your dinner.”

”If you know what’s good for you, that hasn’t changed,” Gilda warns from the back seat.

Dean rolls his eyes, opening the front door and sticking his foot out to stop it from closing on him. The trio are still in their costumes, for the most part. The chainmail shimmers on Dean’s chest. He shakes his shoulders, making the sunlight dance off him. Gilda laughs. She has a jewel stuck right below her eye that shines, too.

Dean wishes Castiel was here with them right now.

The Milton Diner is as old as the trio combines, and always smells like fresh pie. There’s a waitress named Ruby behind the dessert counter with six piercings and seven tattoos. She has a light, square jaw and dark eyes that light up when the three of them walk in. Charlie lets go of Gilda’s hand to give Ruby a hug.

”Charlie! Dean!” Ruby hugs both of them, careful not to get her apron caught in the chainmail. “It’s so good to see you!” She takes a look at Gilda. “And who’s this?”

”Gilda,” she introduces herself, holding out her hand. Ruby takes it and leads them to their booth. Dean sits across from the two girls, who have started holding hands again.

”How have y’all been?” Ruby asks, mostly to Dean.

”Been real good,” he nods.

”Yeah? How’s little Sammy?”

”Not so little any more, he’s startin’ high school next fall, and I think he’s almost taller than me.”

”No way! What’s your dad been up to?”

”Bobby?” Dean asks. She nods, as if it’s silly for him to think there are any other choices. “Been looking for a job. No luck, yet.”

”Shame,” Ruby shakes her head. She scratches the tattoo on her upper arm; she got it right after she started working at the diner, a little over three years ago. Dean never got a good look at it until now; a carton of cigarettes with purple flowers growing out of them, but instead of the brand name, _Anna_ is in written in the Marlboro script. Ruby catches him looking; she looks sad.

_Oh._

Dean remembers the first time he and Ruby had smoked together, right out back of the Milton’s. She was saying something about not being able to smoke at home anymore: her parents’ divorce meant way too many flammable boxes lying around. At least, that’s what she’d told him. Now he knows what she was really saying.

”Anyways,” Ruby clears her throat, bringing Dean back to the present. “I’ll get your usual orders on the grill and then Charlie, you can tell me all about this nice young lady of yours.” Her ponytail swishes behind her as she does.

”Dean?” Gilda asks once Ruby is out of earshot, “Isn’t Bobby your uncle?”

”Not when it counts.”

Gilda nods.

”But Sam is your brother, right?”

”Yes, ma’am. You got any siblings?”

Gilda tenses.

”Um.” Is all she says for a moment.

”Dean.” Charlie snaps her fingers at him. “You remember that knob I was telling you about a month or so ago, Gerry?”

”Yeah?” Dean remembers one of her letters telling him that she beat a guy named Gerry with a broadsword.

”Gerry’s Gilda’s stepbrother.”

”Shit,” Dean swears. It’s more disbelief than anything; Gerry was a mean one, if Charlie’s tales rang true. Doing experiments on rats and spending-all-day-on-4chan kind of mean.

”We don’t talk any more, thanks to Charlie,” Gilda speaks up, rubbing her thumb across Charlie’s hand tenderly.

Ruby drops off two root beers for Charlie and Dean, and a vanilla milkshake for Gilda. Gilda takes two straws and starts sucking down on her shake as soon as it hits the table.

”You certainly get to the point, don’t you?” Dean asks, smirking.

”Tell me about it,” Charlie says. She winks at Gilda. Dean rolls his eyes at them. “So Dean, how’s Cas?” Charlie’s eyes glint.

Gilda perks up. “Oh, Cas is your--”

”Yeah, he is.” It’s not every day he makes a new friend, of course Charlie mentioned him to her girlfriend. “He’s, uh, he’s doing well, I think. Had another doctor’s appointment on Friday, but when doesn’t he, really?” Dean grimaces. It had been Cas’ second appointment this month.

”He’s a writer, right?”

”Yeah. Here, lemme…” Dean gets his phone out. He has dozens of new texts, mostly from Cas, but he flips past them to find the poem Cas wrote a few weeks ago.

Charlie hardly waits to snatch the phone from Dean. Her eager smile melts into a more sincere one the more she reads.

”What the hell, Dean? You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

Dean snorts. Charlie keeps scrolling through his messages.

”Cas is so dreamy.” Okay, that’s enough. Dean grabs his phone back, leaving it face up on the table.

”I didn’t say you could read my texts!”

It’s perfect timing when Ruby comes by with a tray of their food: a bacon cheeseburger for Dean, soup and salad for Charlie, and a large steak for Gilda. Ruby drops the tray off by the kitchen door, turns around, and slides right into the booth, next to Dean. She takes a couple of fries off of Dean’s plate and chomps on them.

”I swear, these things are half of why I started working here.”

”Aren’t you working now?” Charlie reminds her.

”I’m making conversation with the customers! That’s allowed!”

”Whatever, it’s your paycheck.”

Dean takes a bite of his burger. Definitely better than the ones he tried to make at Cas’ house last time.

 _Bzz, bzz. Bzz, bzz._ His phone vibrates beside him. Speak of the devil, it’s a call from Cas.

Charlie snatches the phone and answers it before Dean can even put his burger down.

”Hey Cas!” Fuck, she’s way too happy about this. “It’s Charlie! You remember me, right?” Cas answers, although Dean can’t hear it. “This isn’t an important call, is it? You don’t need to whisk Dean away from us, do you?” _What the hell, Charlie?_

”Give me the damn phone,” Dean growls, reaching across the table. But Charlie stands up.

”Castiel, you really need to talk some manners into this boy! Interrupting a lady while she’s talking, what a cretin!”

”You--” Dean tires for a better insult, and blanks. “You’re a cretin.”

Charlie smiles maliciously.

”Oh, me? I’m doing great! Moondoor won the tournament, and I just sat down to dinner with my three favorite people! No, no, you stay!” Charlie makes for the door. Dean tries to follow, but Ruby’s arm blocks his way.

”Son of a bitch, Ruby.”

”Charlie deserves some bonding time with your boy, don’t you think?” _My boy? What the_ hell, _Charlie?_

”Fuck you,” Dean huffs.

”Maybe some other time,” Ruby winks. Someone back in the kitchen whistles for her to come back.

Charlie comes back in a minute later with the smuggest grin on her face, and hands Dean his phone.

”I knew he was dreamy, but you never told me he was _that_ dreamy!”

Dean just glares. His face feels warm, and it’s not from the armor this time.

”Seriously, Dean.” Charlie sits back down at her seat and looks him in the eye. “He’s good for you. I’m glad you two are-- you know.”

Dean doesn’t know. He doesn’t say anything.

They don’t say a whole lot more for the rest of the meal. It helps that the tournament worked up their appetites. After they go up to pay, Ruby follows them out for a smoke break.

”Dean,” she turns to him, talking through a mouthful of smoke. “You’re going home soon, right?”

”Yeah, why?”

”That old white church in town, the one off Winter’s Lane?”

”What about it?”

”There’s a big plot in the back of the cemetery. Say hi to Anna for me.”

 

”Would you rather do Zachary Quinto or Natalie Dormer? Lesbianism notwithstanding.” Dean asks, staring up at the ceiling. Charlie’s tucked her head into Dean’s neck. Her hair tickles.

”How dare you make me choose?” Charlie mumbles.

”C’mon, be a good sport!” He teases.

”Dormer, then.”

”Not Quinto? Have you seen him?”

”Yeah, but… Breasts.” Charlie nuzzles further into his neck.

”Fair enough.” Dean feels a yawn rising. Charlie’s shampoo smells vaguely like strawberries. He kisses the top of her head. It isn’t long before she’s breathing slow and evenly.

Dean’s phone buzzes beside him. He has exactly thirty-three unread messages from Cas. He figures now is as good a time as any to read them.

Good morning, Dean.

I will be spending some time with Sam tomorrow; he’s agreed to accompany me to church.

I will admit, I am nervous. It’s been a very long time since I was here. Pastor Jim has spent time with my mother, and according to her he’s asked about me.

Dean, I

Dean,

Lately, I haven’t been

Forgive me, it is difficult to find the words.

Being in that church, it… It makes me feel very small.

It’s the church Samandriel’s service was held in.

I see Hael there, still, sometimes. She always seems as if she’s looking for something. Or she has since lost the answer.

I used to understand that feeling very well.

I do not, anymore. I believe I have you to thank for that, Dean.

There are corners of this house that are too big without you in them.

I suppose that is my way of admitting that I miss you.

Sometimes, I think

I wonder what you would think if

Dean, may I

. . . 

My mother and I have been in the midst of a chess game all morning. I fear it will end in a stalemate.

We have not said two words to each other yet today, but we will go into the sitting room every few minutes and find that a piece has been moved.

I feel as if there is much we are trying not to say.

There’s a break from his monologue when Dean arrived at Charlie’s. An hour or so later, Cas continued.

I will be heading to the Roadhouse. It is a bit of a walk, I ought to get going. 

I… may have over estimated my level of physical stamina. I am glad I told Ash before I arrived.

He seems to be friends with many of the more… Intimidating patrons here.

Jo is also a marvelous conversationalist.

hello dean its me cas im here to impress u with my enormous throbbing vocabulary ;)) o baby baby

Jo apprehended my phone while I was up. I apologize for her being so lewd.

My phone is low on battery, I must go for a while.

I hope you don’t mind if I give you a call over dinner.

Calls Received: 1. Duration: 09:12

What a bright soul Charlie has.

Although I feel that she has gotten a wrong impression about… Our relationship.

I apologize, I am probably very off-base.

I believe the chess game with my mother is nearing it’s completion.

hey cas. im headin to bed, can we talk tomoro?

Dean’s chest hurts in an unexpected way typing that reply. Something in him aches for Castiel.

Yes, if you would like.

yes i would like :p

Good night, Dean. Sleep well.

gnight cas! :)

<3

Dean finally passes out staring at Cas’ last text to him.


	17. Soup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: coughing fits, mucus/unsanitary conditions, sickness, and slight unreality

Air, it seems, is the last thing that wants to be inside Castiel’s lungs. _When did the bathroom door get so heavy?_ he wonders, pushing it open. He ignores the shaking in his forearms.

He hacks and coughs, spitting mouthfuls of mucus into the sink. His head swims. He inhales brokenly, choked by his loaded lungs. Another mouthful of mucus comes up. He coughs more, throaty. Once his hands stop shaking, he takes a long, slow puff of his inhaler. Every bone in his body aches.

Castiel looks in the mirror; his reflection has changed. Sure, his hair still spikes up at odd angles, and his jaw remains just as square. But his face is paler. There is something dimming in his eyes. He squeezes his eyes shut; the darkness feels much closer than it has before. He opens his eyes and looks down. _Castiel was here_ , the red-yellow stained sink taunts.

Castiel hacks out a couple more fistfulls of mucus and blood, washing it down the sink as best he can. His throat is gummy, mucus sits heavy in his stomach. He is no longer hungry, but he turns and goes back to the cafeteria anyway. Down the hallway, he is assaulted with poorly-hung streamers and heart-shaped balloons. There is a table set up outside the door, advertising carnations for a dollar and roses for three.

Castiel finds Dean the moment he walks back through the door. Something is troubling him; his eyebrows are furrowed and he is staring down at something in his lap. He looks up to give Castiel a smile, but it is shaky. Jo and Ash, however, seem utterly unphased.

”Happy Single’s Awareness Day,” Ash says, flipping his hair back from his forehead. He hands Castiel a small Tupperware container; inside is a very smushed slice of Roadhouse cake.

”Giving me a gift, Ash? Is there something you’re trying to say?” Castiel jests, but he’s cut off by a small cough.

”Nonsense, bud. You’re not my type anyway.”

”I would certainly hope not.”

Castiel coughs again as he sits down next to Dean. Dean gives him a look, glancing from Castiel’s eyes to his coat pocket. _Of course. My phone._ Cas almost grabs his inhaler by mistake.

dude r u okay??

u looked awful today where r u?

r u still up 4 coming over after school?

cas??

castiel do you

o there u r, thank god

When Castiel looks up from reading his texts, Dean is giving him a look that Cas can only describe as being full of sorrow. Cas decides right then that Dean should never have that look on his face again, it does not suit him the slightest.

Jo hands everyone a plastic fork for the cake. Dean hands one to Castiel, and leaves his arm lying on the table. Castiel puts his own arm right up next to Dean’s. The cake, Castiel decides, is not the best cake he has had in his life. Although little can compare to the food he got the chance to eat in Italy when he was young. But it is sweet and tastes like raspberries, and that is enough.

As they eat, a group of girl traipse around the cafeteria, calling out names and handing out carnations and the occasional rose.

”Shit, I didn’t know they were doing that now,” Dean says, grimacing. He shifts his position.

_Oh._ Castiel didn’t realize that Dean’s hand was on top of his, until it isn’t any more.

”Don’t you listen to like, anything Mrs. Leonard says?” Jo scolds him through a mouthful of cake.

”Uh,” is all Dean says. In truth, Castiel and Dean had been passing notes back and forth the entire time she was making her announcements.

One of the girls patrolling stops at their table. Castiel recognizes her from Shop; her name is Jace.

”Jo?” Jace reads, holding out a limp pink carnation. Jo takes it, turning the same color as the flower. “And uh, Casteel?

”Castiel,” Cas corrects automatically. There are three flowers in her hand for him, one pink carnations, one red one, and oh. One rose.

”Wow, Dean and I are really feeling the love,” Ash says. Cas doesn’t miss Dean roll his eyes.

”Who’s yours from, Jo?” Dean asks. There’s a small pink card sticking off the flower stem, held there by a red ribbon. She flips it over.

” _It is Valentine’s Day, I hope it is a good one for you._ ” She reads. “Aw, thank you, Cas.” She beams at him. Cas swells with a mix of pride and embarrassment. “What about yours?”

He rolls the flower stems around in his hand. The pink one is from Jo: he recognizes her sharp handwriting on the outside of the card.

” _Happy V-day and B-day, Cas. Take it easy._ ” Castiel reads.

”That’s right, dude, it’s your birthday! I totally forgot!” Ash says, smacking himself on the forehead.

”That is quite alright.”

”Who are your other flowers from?” Jo asks eagerly.

There’s only one card for both flowers. Have a good one. Yours, Dean. Castiel stares. _Yours._ The word stares back.

”I can’t read it,” he lies. He pockets the card before Jo can grab it.

Thank you.

And of course, I will be coming home with you after class.

Castiel puts his arm back on the table. Dean’s hand covers his once again.

 

Sitting in the front seat of the cas, Castiel feels the music vibrating right into his chest. His flowers are sitting in his lap. Dean holds the steering wheel with one hand, the other turns down the music until Cas can barely hear it. Cas coughs again, and takes a couple puffs of his inhaler. He feels, perhaps for the first time all day, like he can breathe.

”You sure you’re okay?” Something in Dean’s voice is very warm. Cas doesn’t want it to go away.

”Yes,” Cas says slowly, “like a million dollars.”

Dean gives him a look.

”I know that’s not true, c’mon.”

”It is… My truth.”

Dean huffs. “Whatever, Cas. What do you want to do for your special day, anyway?”

”Excuse me?” Cas tilts his head. He was under the impression that Valentine’s Day was not all that special to Dean. Dean’s hand is resting on his own thigh, curling and uncurling. He sighs, mustering up some energy, it seems. Castiel is fascinated watching him. Dean swallows.

”It’s your birthday! The big one-eight! What did you have in mind?” Oh. Not Valentine’s Day.

”I admit I haven’t been thinking about it much,” Cas answers, glancing down at the flowers in his lap.

”Nothing? Seriously? Live a little.” Dean rolls his eyes. The Impala’s brake squeaks when they turn into Dean’s neighborhood.

”Spending time with you is gift enough.”

“Well don’t you know how to make a man feel special.” It comes out very sarcastic, but Dean has turned very pink.

Gabe mews happily when they walk in the door. Castiel’s chest feels very full, walking into the Winchester’s house. Cas and Dean sneeze at the same time. There is more clutter around the house than Castiel remembers seeing last time.

Dean makes a beeline for the kitchen and yanks open a cabinet.

”You can’t drink, right?” He asks Cas without turning around. Cas goes up behind him, watching him rifle through the cabinet. He puts his chin on Dean’s shoulder. He did not realize just how much taller Dean is.

”Man, I was gonna offer you a shot of whiskey or three.”

”That would be very ill-advised.” Cas peeks into the cabinet. There are a handful of spices, a small flask of something, and half a container of white vinegar. Cas reaches for the vinegar. “I have an idea.”

”What?” Dean moves, shrugging Cas off his shoulder. “No way, not even Jo can handle that.”

”It is my birthday.” Cas raises his eyebrows at Dean. They are standing very close.

Dean huffs. “It’s your funeral.” He winces. “No, wait, I didn’t-- Shit.”

To his own surprise, Castiel laughs. His laugh is swallowed by a hacking cough, though, and he spits into the closest trashcan. When he stands back up, Dean looks very sad. He puts the shot glasses down on the counter, and pours them both full of glistening white vinegar.

”Dean,” Cas starts, clearing his throat. Dean turns to face Cas, winding up with his back against the countertop. Heat is pooling off both of them. Castiel tilts his head, leaning closer. “The flowers.” His voice is little more than a whisper. It does not have to be any louder, with how close they are. “Why did you…” Cas’ heart is thumping in his chest; He can feel Dean’s breath ghosting across him. Sweet, he smells sweet, and very Dean. Cas goes up on his tip-toes to get that much closer.

The front door slams opens with a bang.

”Dean! I’m home! And I brought Jess!” Sam’s voice rings through the whole house.

The air around Cas becomes very cold very quickly. Dean slides away from Cas to say hi to his brother. Sam and Jess come inside, both pink from the cold.

”Hey Sammy. Uh, how long are you here for?”

”Oh, hey Cas,” Sam waves. Cas waves back, sheepish. “Not long, just gonna get some stuff and then we’re heading back out. Jess’ mom is waiting outside.”

”Wow, Mom chaperoning dates, you’re really movin’ up there, kiddo.”

Sam sticks his tongue out and the pair duck into Sam’s bedroom, shutting the door loudly.

Dean swivels back to Cas. Cas swallows; his tongue tastes like thick salt.

”We gonna do this?” Dean raises his eyebrows, expectant.

”Um,” Cas falters.

”The vinegar shots, dude.”

”Right. Yes, let’s.”

The shot glasses on the counter glisten. Castiel’s heart wrings itself out as he reaches forward to take his shot. Dean is standing a couple of feet away from him, a glint in his eye. He grins at Cas.

”Bottoms up!”

They both swallow. The vinegar is bitter and slick down Cas’ throat. It would have burned, save for the thick blanket of mucus covering his insides. So instead, it goes down smooth.

Dean, on the other hand, chokes and spit, barely finishing his glass before retching over the sink. He slams his shot glass back down on the counter, white-knuckled and shaking.

”Jesus fuck,” he splutters, spitting a mouthful of vinegar into the sink. He waves his hand around as if he’s trying to find something solid to hold onto. Castiel steps forward; Dean grips his shoulder.

Behind them, a door squeaks.

”Sammy!” Dean shouts to his brother, his voice hoarse. “Don’t do vinegar shots!” His tone tells Castiel this piece of information is vitally important.

”Uh,” Sam says from close to the door, “duh? I’m not an idiot.” His tone has no malice. And then he leaves.

Dean tries to glare, but he’s caught by another cough. He doesn’t loosen his grip on Cas’ shoulder.

”Fuckin’ hell,” Dean curses again, once he’s finally able to stand straight on his feet. “Is this how you feel all the time?”

Cas pauses, considering the red-faced, shaky Dean in front of him. He considers the weight looming in his chest, the way he feels _thick_ inside in a way he knows he shouldn’t. He considers the heavy scratching at the back of his throat.

”Yes,” he admits. “Something like that.”

Dean runs a hand through his hair, clearing his throat.

”I see you did fine with the vinegar,” he sniffs dismissively. Castiel stares at the shot glasses, upside-down on the counter, a couple of drops of vinegar still clinging to the sides.

”Yes.”

”Man,” Dean shakes his head, “I’d love to get you drunk one day.”

The comments leaves Cas feeling warm in many places.

”That’s very ill-advised, Dean.”

”Yeah, yeah.” he _tsk_ s.

A wave of dizziness crashes over Castiel. _Oh_. His mouth flies open in a wordless cough, shoving past Dean to gag into the sink. He feels that same darkness pounding, waiting, right behind his eyes.

”Dean, I…” He does not know what to say. The dark is close enough to taste. He heaves once more.

But Dean seems to understand. He hooks an arm under one of Castiel’s own, eases him gently away from the sink.

In all honestly, Castiel is not sure how he got to be lying down on the couch. The only thing he is really aware of is that the couch smells like _Dean_ so strongly that Cas’ heart might jump out of his chest. He feels much too warm in all the wrong ways.

With his eyes closed and his mouth parted slightly, Cas registers that someone, somewhere very far away, is saying something to him.

_Dywannssthnteet_

Castiel does not understand the voice, so he doesn’t answer.

_Dyouwantsomthnteet?_

_Cas?_

Oh, but he hears that loud and clear.

”Cas. Hey, Cas?” It is Dean’s voice, still very far away.

Castiel manages a groan.

”Cas, do you want something to eat?” Dean’s voice is very gentle. Castiel tries to swallow to answer. His tongue, his discovers, is painfully dry. He takes a deep breath. His lungs feel heavy where they meet his ribs.

He manages a _yes_ , just barely. In just a moment, he becomes aware that someone is standing very close to him. His entire body feels too heavy to act on the sudden pull of fear in his stomach.

”Cas, hey, buddy.” Is it Dean’s voice, pleasantly soft on Cas’ ears. And then Cas is being jostled, hoisted so he is sitting up. There is a hand on his back. “Let’s get this coat off or you’ll overheat, alright?”

Castiel’s stomach lurches to his throat. His coat comes off. It is cold. But the hand returns to his back. Cas is fairly certain he lets out a groan, but he can’t be too sure. Everything wavers.”Whenever I get sick,” Dean’s voice comes again, “Mom would always make me tomato-rice soup. I tried to make some for you, but something was crawling through the rice, and I didn’t wanna risk it.” The hand leaves Cas’ back. “I think we have some chicken soup in the pantry somewhere. Yeah.” He thinks for a moment. It feels like it’s years before Cas hears “Yeah, you hang on.” And all at once, Dean’s presence is gone from beside Castiel. His brain blurs.

Someone is touching him. They are warm. Something else smells very good, through Cas’ stuffed nose.

”Hey Cas, can y’open your eyes?” Cas makes a noise of protest. “Hell, am I gonna have to feed you, too? Fine.” But Dean does not sound as exasperated as he could. “Useless!” Dean continues. “You’re no better than a baby in a trenchcoat, are you?”

Oh, if Cas’ chest wasn’t aching before.

”Can you open your mouth, at least?” This, Castiel can do. He draws himself, sluggish and salty, out of his head. He opens his lips just enough, and then there’s metal clacking against his teeth and something delicious-salty-sweet sliding down his throat. He swallows.

”S’chicken soup. Canned. Not as good as you coulda made, I’m sure.” Dean chuckles to himself. “I had to call Sammy for help. Don’t tell anyone, I wouldn’t live it down.” _Your secret is safe with me,_ Cas thinks, since he can’t seem to say anything.

Dean helps him through quite a few more spoonfuls of warm, brothy soup. Cas feels the heat soil in his stomach. Achingly, he opens his eyes. His vision is blurred in the bright light. The first-- the only thing he sees is Dean. Dean, kneeling down beside the couch, a soup bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. He is watching Castiel, his lips parted and his cheeks a slight pink. Dean drops the spoon back into the bowl and raises his thumb to Cas’ cheekbone, wandering from cheek to jawline and back. His skin is refreshingly cool.

”Thank you, Dean.” Cas manages to croak out, his voice made of sandpaper. He eases himself back down. Everything aches. He watches Dean put the bowl down on the coffee table.

”S’not a problem.” Dean shrugs. He shifts from shoulder to shoulder. Licks his lips. Castiel knows that look.

”Is there anything else you would like to say?”

”Um,” Dean looks like he’s going to bite on his tongue. “Yeah, what’s… What’s the matter?”

Cas shuts his eyes again, and heaves a sigh that makes him feel much, much heavier than before.

”I have a cold.” He says, with feeling. There is a weighty pause. And Dean bursts out laughing. If Castiel had the energy to glare, he would have.

”Jesus,” Dean splutters, trying to swallow his laughter. “Really? I mean, _really_?”

Cas feels something unsettle in his throat.

”Yes, Dean, really.” He bites, feeling his lip curl. “The last time I got a cold I had to stay out of school for half of the semester.” The words leave something sour in Cas’ mouth that he tries to swallow.

There is a silence, and then, “Oh.”

”Oh.” Cas echoes. He opens his eyes again. Dean is biting his lip, one hand resting beside Castiel’s hip.

”I didn’t-- I mean, I had no clue that…” Dean stumbles through an apology. He leans forward, wavering, like there is still something else. Castiel smiles, raising a shaky hand to quiet his friend, and whatever other thoughts he may be having. Cas feels the anger melt out of him. When he lowers his hand, it lands over Dean’s. “I’m really bad at this.”

”I know.” Cas sounds tired, even to himself.

He takes a deep breath, feeling the air pounding, thick-but-not-thick-enough, against his lungs.

”Dean,” Cas says. Dean swallows. There is something sick sitting in Cas’ stomach. Waiting. There is much, so much, that he wants to say.

But it is not time yet. _Not yet._ something deeper inside him whispers.

Cas lets his breath out. “Please... get me more soup.”

Dean does. It is delicious. It is enough for now.


	18. Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS: brief sexuality involving penises, sensuality/romance, mentions of injury. And I guess a general warning for Twilight?

There are warm, sweat-sticky hands running down Dean’s abdomen, and a tightness in his gut that makes him buck and writhe. Someone is hot and solid over top of him, moving strong hands against Dean’s bare cock in sturdy, languid jerks. The figure pants against his neck, sliding his teeth along Dean’s collarbone. Dean feels himself jerk against the figure’s hands, until the hand moves away to press right below Dean’s throat.

Something slick and hard slides against Dean’s hip: the person’s dick, pulsing. Dean’s mouth waters. He’s able to move his hands, so he runs them over the other man’s hips, nearly losing it the way he grinds down on Dean’s cock. There’s a scar sitting right above the man’s hip. Dean presses his thumb against it, and the man lets out a hiss.

”Dean, Dean Dean Dean,” the man gasps, leaving sticky breath across Dean’s neck. His voice is low.

”Cas, fuck, _Cas_ ,” Dean sighs out.

And Dean is ripped awake, a cold sweat staining his back. Everything is dark. He is more than painfully hard, and there is one word on his mind. _Castiel._ followed shortly after by _fuck_ and then _fuck_ again.

He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, watching the lights behind them dance, and willing himself to just calm down, damn it. He opens his eyes and stares at the blank ceiling. It’s a lot lower down than Cas’ ceiling. There’s a crack running from the window to halfway across the room. His vision prickles in the dark.

”Fuck.” He says out loud. The word echoes in the dark.

Cas.

”Cas.”

He feels _something_ in his chest.

He grabs his phone off the floor.

cas r u awake??

_Wait, shit, what time is it even?_ He checks, nearly four AM. No one would be awake now. _No one except Cas._

Dean scrambles to pick his phone back up when it buzzes a minute later.

Yes, Dean. Are you alright? Do you need something?

Dean hadn’t actually thought this far.

He can still feel dream Cas’ breath on his neck. He shudders.

no i just… had a dream

_You’re an idiot, Winchester._

It’s not like Dean’s never had a sex dream before. If anything, he’s the master of having sex dreams. Celebrities, attractive people on the street, Jace, have all shown up in his head before. That’s nothing new. But never like this. Not like this.

A dream? Would you like to talk about it?

Dean’s thumbs hesitate over the tiny keyboard. He types out a message, and deletes it. He types it out again, and deletes it. Then he types it out a third time, and sends it before he can convince himself not to.

idk i dont remember a lot. u were there and we were... idk maybe im just excited to see you?

I fail to understand how that’s a cause for concern? Regardless, I’m excited to see you, too. :-)

no no its not a concern it was just… idk. nvrmind! im tired! and since when do u use emoticons?

Dean can’t stop thinking about Cas’ hand around his cock.

Sam and Jess were teaching me how earlier in the week. I quite like them, they are good at expressing emotion.

yeah cuz ur the master of emotions

_Master of making me fucking lose it, is more like it._

>:-( I do not appreciate your sarcasm.

since when? and here i thought u loved everything i did :’(

_Dean, what the fuck are you doing?_

Dean stares across the room, still prickly and out-of-focus. He can’t see the photos on his mirror, but he knows Charlie and Gilda are smiling at him. He can feel their judgement.

Castiel doesn’t reply for a few minutes.

I do not love when you do things like that, no. But the things we do do not define who we are.

why r u so fucking poetic its four fucking oclock in the morning

Cas doesn’t say anything.

cas? i didnt offend u did i?

My apologies, Dean. I keep falling asleep. I believe I should be getting to bed.

right, yea ofc.

Good night, Dean. I hope you are feeling better.

That’s right. Dean’s dream.

i am. thx cas. goodnight!

Dean flops back onto his pillow. _Cas_ sits very warmly in his chest.

And in his crotch, but he wills that away.

Eventually, he gets back to sleep.

 

”Sam, there is no way in _hell_ we are going to watch _Twilight_ with you.” Dean crosses his arms over his chest.

”Why not?” Sam pouts, defensive. He looks over Dean’s shoulder. “Cas, can you please convince Dean to put his man card away for an _hour_?”

Dean feels Cas right behind him. His breath is warm and doing _nothing_ to stop Dean from thinking about his dream. _Oh, fuck me._ Dean thinks, desperately.

”I do not understand how watching a movie would revoke Dean’s…” The idea is lost on him, he doesn’t even finish his thought. Dean sighs, turning towards him. He’s standing very close.

”It’s an expression, Cas,” Dean explains, rolling his eyes.

”Do you find the movie offensive?” Cas has that look like he’s genuinely concerned for the movie Sam might want to watch. Dean softens at Cas’ look.

”God, no, it’s just…” Dean sighs, loosening up his defensive shoulders. “It’s just a dumb movie, Cas. I don’t wanna watch it.”

”But D _e_ -ean,” Sam whines, and Dean turns his attention back on his brother. “Jess wants me to watch it and I don’t wanna do it alone.” He flips his hair out of his eyes. Damn, is the kid’s hair getting long. Dean’s gonna need to take some scissors to it soon.

Dean shuts his eyes. “Fine, you win.”

Sam pumps a fist in the air. _How many cruddy movies has he been_ watching _because of Jess?_ Dean wonders. He huffs.

Cas sits on the left side of the couch, his back rod-straight, staring at the TV like he half-expects a wolf to jump out at him.

”Cas,” Dean tries not to roll his eyes. “It’s not a scary movie. Have you really never heard of _Twilight_?”

”I do remember Gabriel talking about it, but to be honest, I tuned him out much of the time.” Cas looks sheepish. “A ten-year-old Castiel could only take so much Gabriel.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, I know some people like that.” He thinks of Ash fondly.

In the meantime, Sam is setting up the DVD player, flipping through all the outdated movie trailers and promos with ease. Dean, settling back into the couch and slinging an arm over the back of Cas’ seat, starts to wonder if this won’t be the first time Sam has seen the movie. _Lousy kid._

The movie opens on a deer in the woods and an angsty speech from an out-of-frame narrator. Snore.

”Why did I agree to this again?” Dean leans over to ask Cas.

”Because you have a weak spot for your brother.” He answers, nonchalant.

”Ain’t that the truth.”

Castiel is positively radiating warmth beside him. Jesus H. Christ, are Dean’s fingers itching to rest on Castiel’s thigh. And maybe to slide up slowly to reach his--

_Down, Winchester. Jesus, did you leave your head up your ass this morning?_ One part of him asks.

_Well, no,_ another part replies, _But I know what I’d like up my ass this morning._

_God damn it._

The movie rolls on, bleaker and less interesting than watching paint dry. There was a parody that came out a few years after the movie itself, and Dean would much rather be watching that. At least he can shield himself behind the irony.

He leans closer to Cas, so he can whisper better. Has Cas always smelled this good?

”Are you ready to tear this movie a new one with me?”

And he’s back to thinking about his ass, and Cas’ cock. God damn it.

”Of course, Dean,” Cas says, although Dean knows he doesn’t really get it.

”Just hop on the sarcasm bus with me and it’ll be a smooth ride.”

Cas blinks. “Of course, Dean.” He echoes.

The movie plays. Dean and Cas’ legs are touching from him to knee and Dean doesn’t feel nearly close enough. he watches the movie idly, every once in a while leaning over to make a quip in Cas’ ear. When it comes time for Broody McHotness Edward and Cardboard Lady Bella to begin their torrid love affair, Dean can feel Sam inching forward on his half of the couch.

”Sammy, you’re not _into_ this, are you?”

”Shut up! This is the best part!”

Dean shares a look with Castiel.

”Don’t tell me you like this crap, too?” Dean gestures to the human-vampire couple now balancing on the top of a very unstable-looking tree.

”I do admit,” Castiel squirms a little, “That is is much more enjoyable with you here.” Cas shifts around to get more comfortable, moving his hips _just so_ off the cushion. It brings Dean back to his dream, and running his hand over Cas’ scar. Dean licks his lips. He really isn’t sure how he’s going to get through this movie.

As it turns out, he gets through it better than Sam, who leans back and starts snoring as the action scenes are drawing to a close.

”Really, though, how could Bella fall for someone like that?” Dean mutters to Cas, who’s watching Bella’s mom tell her a lie about falling through a window. Dean puts on his deepest, most dramatic voice. “Ooh, I’m Mr. Watches You While You Sleep, I’ll never leave your side. Literally! I’m gonna put you in dangerous situations and give you no alternatives to escape! How fucking romantic! Give me a break.” Cas chuckles, and Dean feels it all the way down his side. He doesn’t notice his arm around Cas’ shoulder until now.

It’s nice.

 

When it gets to the scene at prom, with all the glowing lanterns and short, frilly dresses, Dean is rather unhappy.

”Seriously, Cas, riddle me this.” Dean starts. They’re very close together, so close that Dean barely has to raise his voice, although he really wants to. “How does everyone in movies know how to dance?”

”Well,” Cas says, after a moment of thought, “Edward is very old, he may have picked it up along the way.”

”That’s not the point!” Dean argues, “The point is… You’ve seen _Grease_ , right? Everyone at that school is a fucking professional! I don’t get it!” Cas says nothing. “I mean, I took dance with Jo for a few years, sure, but I’m not the greatest thing since Star Trek IV.”

”I can’t say I understand,” Cas says finally. “I’ve never danced at all.”

”What?!” Dean says, incredulous. He’s a little too loud; Sam stirs in his sleep, rolling over.

”I never had the chance.” Cas admits, looking bashful.

”What?” Dean echoes. “That’s ridiculous!” He stands up. “Get up!”

Cas blinks, but he stands.

As quietly as they can, they move the coffee table over to the far wall. Then Dean stands in front of Cas with his arms open. He puts a hand on Cas’ waist, underneath his coat.

”Now put your hand on my shoulder.” Dean instructs. Cas does. Dean takes Cas’ other hand in his and holds it up. Cas’ skin is smooth where Dean’s has callouses. Cas’ fingers are cold. It doesn’t register to Dean how close they are until he feels Cas’ stomach rise and fall with his breathing. Smaller breaths then Dean would expect. Nerves, he guesses.

”Alright, I’m gonna step forward and you step back with the same foot.” Dean can feel Cas’ sharp inhale as they move together. “Good, good. Now, just follow my feet.” They both drop their gaze, and they have to step back a few painful inches in order to let Cas follow properly. They step again, and again, keeping their circle tight so they don’t knock into anything. Cas has a natural rhythm. _One_ and _two_ and _three_ and _four_ and .

They make a turn, and oh shit, Dean gets dipped. Cas’ arms are sturdy, holding him there for a second longer than necessary. If Dean’s heart wasn’t throbbing before… _When did Cas’ eyes get so_ soft? He has some sharp sleep lines under his bottom lids, but his laugh lines are just as visible. Shit.

Dean comes back up on two feet. They keep dancing. In the background, Edward kisses a spot on Bella’s neck and talks about _forever_. And _one_ and _two_ and _three_ and _four_ and _one_ and _two_... and… _three_ and…

And Dean and Castiel are kissing. Dean’s lips chapped and sticky on Cas’, warm and soft with a swipe of wet that makes Dean’s heart squeeze. Their mouths move together, a better rhythm than their feet could. They are slow, both a little unsure. Dean drops his hands and holds both against Cas’ hips, pulling him close so their whole body’s line up. Castiel is warm, warm, warm and his tongue is slick, curling against Dean’s. Castiel carts a hand over the back of Dean’s head. _Fuck_ , Dean never wants to stop kissing like this.

Eventually, they pull apart. Castiel chases him for another kiss, softly.

”Fuck,” Dean mutters.

His smile drops.

_Oh, fuck._


	19. Speak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emetophobia warning for this chapter, mentions of food/eating, mentions of recreational drug use (marijuana), illness, and blood.

Sam, I need your help.

Yeah Cas whats up?

I… have made a mistake. Involving Dean.

Yeah no kidding hes been moping around all week.

I see. That’s very unfortunate.

I know what happened

You do? Did Dean tell you about it?

who are you kidding Dean doesnt talk about whats bothering him. But you really think Id sleep through Twilight? I love that movie!

What do you suggest I do about it?

To be honest Cas I dont really see what the problem is. You two have got it bad for each other and everyone knows it.

Do you think that I should… Take Dean on a date?

Only way to find out is to ask!

Yes. You’re right.

Id do it soon too Im tired of him being sad all the time.

Of course. Thank you, Sam.

No problem! :o)

 

Castiel sits in his usual seat in Shop, waiting patiently for Dean to arrive. He doesn’t expect much from the boy, honestly. But three days and little less than a head nod is leaving a scooping hole in the middle of Cas’ chest. Especially with how close they had been over the weekend, the space between them now feels like ice.

Dean saunters in ten minutes late and reeking of marijuana. Cas knows the smell from late nights with Alfie, ones he had long-since forgotten. Dean doesn’t give Cas a second glance when he takes a seat across the room, with Jace. She greets him with a slender hand on his bicep and a kiss on his cheek.

In contrast to his lungs, which are fuller and thicker than they have ever been, Castiel’s stomach feels like it’s trying to eat itself. Castiel watches Dean smile, and he knows that smile doesn’t reach all the way inside. He wants to shout, and kick, and yell at Dean until his throat goes hoarse for being such an outrageous _asshole_. But he doesn’t. He sits in his seat like all of heaven is weighing down on him.

After a couple more painful minutes of nothing, Cas takes out some paper and a pen from his backpack. He sucks the pen between his front teeth. He squints at the page; the blank lines are nauseating. He takes the pen out of his mouth and scratches a few swirls onto the margin, hoping that something, anything besides Dean will inspire him.

He remembers Alfie, one night while they were sprawled out in the middle of Eden, looking up at the stars through the tops of the trees, telling Castiel how he thinks that maybe he’d done something wrong. Alfie had thought about it for months, if maybe his soul was built sideways, or he had done something when he was young to make God angry. It had made him feel dirty and sick, like he had tar stuck to his joints. Castiel was enraged to hear such a bright young boy say such things about himself. He could never understand why.

Castiel can not say he’s ever hated himself before, but the next time Dean glances over to him, he looks away.

 

Castiel had assumed that after a week of doing nothing to further their English project along, Dean would begrudgingly accept his offer to at least outline the essay portion of their packet. But it seems Castiel has underestimated Dean’s ability to welcome procrastination.

Ms. Nisbet seats all the partners together, although if Dean’s body language is anything to go by, Castiel all but doesn’t exist. Cas clears his throat heartily. Dean winces when Cas coughs, but otherwise makes no motion to acknowledge him.

”Dean.” Cas tries. “We need to work on our project.” Nothing, Dean only flips a page in his book. His fingers tense impatiently, going between curling and uncurling and tapping on the desk. The fingers that were oh, so recently holding Castiel’s hips steady as they danced around the Winchester’s living room. Castiel’s breakfast boils in his stomach. “Dean? Have you gotten any of your work done?” he tries again. And again, nothing. Castiel sighs, languid. He closes his eyes, still able to see Dean so clearly in the dark. He tries one last time. “Dean? Have I done something wrong?” His eyes open.

Dean, about to turn the page, pauses. His thumb is trembling, ever so slightly. He looks up: his eyebrows are a tight line; there is a crease on the side of each eye that Castiel has, until now, only seen when Dean talks of his father. He is not smiling.

Castiel looks away before Dean does. He breathes. Short, regulated. Like a soldier. He swallows his cough back into his throat.

He opens his copy of _Frankenstein_ and stares at the page.

 

Castiel honestly considers praying when the bell rings, sending him off to Psychology. Specifically, sending him off to Psychology without Dean. His teacher gives him a nod when he walks in.

”Good morning, Castiel.”

Zachariah Fueler is on the shorter side, balding, with very sunken eyes and a not-so-friendly smile. But he is an excellent teacher, and Castiel has aced every one of his tests since the beginning of the year, even with all the time he has missed. Dean had had him the previous year, and insisted the guy was a ‘nut job’. Cas banishes the thought; he is not here to think about Dean. Especially not today, with how his stomach is queasing.

Instead, he takes out his notebook, falling apart with information and sticky-note reminders all written in his even, blue handwriting. He coughs, mucus and salt heavy in his mouth, and tries to focus on the lesson at hand: lifespan and brain development.

”As many of you may know, the human brain takes about twenty-five years to develop entirely.” Mr. Fueler begins, clicking away idly at his laptop screen. “So those of us around the world who are prone to disease, or starvation, whose lifespans are ultimately shorter, are often unable to develop in the same capacity as the average person.”

Castiel breathes in, quick and regulated, and out, easy like it’s only been minutes instead of months. He does not think about how his skin is tingling warm at Zachariah’s words. He instead turns his focus to the chalkboard in front of him, and clicks his pen.

 

By lunch time, Castiel’s stomach is empty enough to start hurting on his inhale. He is no longer used to only eating what he packs himself for lunch. His tongue is empty with the want of Roadhouse fries, or sloppy Winchester kitchen sandwiches.

He decides, as he walks to the lunch room, that enough is enough. He skips over the corner seat by the vending machine, where he’s been spending the most of his week eating, and goes to where Jo is sitting. She has, mouth-wateringly, two slices of Roadhouse cake in a pink Tupperware container.

”Cas!” Her eyes light up when she sees him. She pats the part of the seat next to her. “Have a seat! It’s great to see you again!”

”Thank you, Jo.” He feels himself relax a fraction. He sits down and unzips his lunch bag, taking out some overcooked tortellini and incredibly rubbery string beans, his addition to the potluck.

”I’m really glad you’re back. Dean’s been a _nightmare_ this week, and you know him when he’s grumpy.”

”Yes, I…” Cas falters, squeezing his eyes shut at a sudden, sharp pain. “We have been having a… rough week.”

”I’ll say, you look like you got hit with a truck.”

Castiel does not respond, only rubs his eyes with the heel of his palms. Blue-green stars burst inside him.

”Speaking of, here come our boys now.” Jo says, and her tone feels like a warning, one Castiel is grateful for.

Dean drops himself diagonal to Castiel, nodding to Jo and tossing his smushed sandwich onto the pile of food. Ash, mouth already stuffed full of Doritos, gives Cas a one-armed hug and adds in a couple bags of chips.

”Cas, mi hermano!” Ash says, after swallowing, “where have you been? We’ve been dying without you, man!” He plops down across the table from Cas.

Cas straightens up, looking directly at Ash. “My apologies. But I am back now.” He looks over at Dean, who is staring at the potluck pile. Ash looks between the two of them.

”Well it’s good to have you back!” Ash insists, slapping Cas in the shoulder. Castiel smiles on one side of his mouth. Jo tears open a bag of chips.

”Oh, dude, Ash,” Jo interrupts, crunching on a chip. “Did I tell you what we talked about in Law today? Fucking moose. Meese? Mooses? Yeah, anyway, this couple from New Hampshire was charged after chasing down a moose and getting attacked.”

Ash shrugs, in a friendly sort of way. “What did I tell you?”

Castiel stares across the table, to Dean. His eyebrows are creased together again, and there’s been a tension in his shoulders since he sat down. He still isn’t looking up.

Jo and Ash yak on, and Castiel, taking bites of cake, only looks at Dean. Something inside him quivers, like it’s waiting for something. Cas tries to take a deep breath, but his inhale is sharp. Dean’s eyes snap up to his.

”You are exhausted.” Castiel says, before he realizes what he is saying. It’s true: Dean’s eyes are sunken and dark, heavy in the way even the strongest coffee can’t leverage.

Dean looks utterly disgusted, directly at Castiel. It makes him want to vomit. “Maybe I just haven’t wanted to sleep lately,” Dean leers.

_Fine._ Castiel thinks, _If this is how it’s going to be._. So Cas straightens his back, tightens his shoulders. Another sharp inhale. His chest hurts.

”Take care of yourself better.” It is an order.

”Fuck off, Cas.”

There is a bitter, angry reply right behind Cas’ teeth. He can feel it, hot and salty, waiting for him to open his mouth and shout.

Blood and mucus falls into his hands, instead.

 

Everything is burning hot and Cas’ blood is freezing cold in his mouth. His throat burns, retching mouthfuls into the toilet. The floor of the stall smells like moldy burgers and shit. Castiel’s eyes never turn puffy or red when he cries. He shakes against the toilet bowl, sweating and swearing.

There is a creak behind him, of someone opening the stall door and standing behind him. Castiel shudders, his eyes shut tight, listening to the boy’s breathing. The boy crouches down.

”I’m… I hate that you’re sick, Cas.” Dean’s voice is hardly a whisper.

”I am sick.” Cas sighs, his eyes still closed. “That isn’t your fault.”

”No, I--” Cas hears Dean shifting, fabric rustling against the tile floor. Cas dares his eyes open for a moment, enough to see a very blurry Dean sitting cross-legged behind him. “I mean I’m… Sorry you got sick.”

”No kidding.”

Dean snorts. ”Hey now, I’m being nice.”

”You are always nice.”

”Would you-- would you let me finish?” Dean asks, Cas can hear the fluster in his voice,

Castiel coughs another mouthful into the sink. He is getting very, very tired of just how copper blood tastes. He opens his eyes a little more, giving Dean what he can manage for a smile. Dean scoots closer, until his knees are pressed against the outside of Cas’ hips.

”I just…” He sighs, leaving a warm prickle on the back of Cas’ neck. “I thought that… Well, I didn’t think that… I mean, I….” Dean presses his forehead into Cas’ shoulder.

Cas opens his eyes. Lines of red drip slowly from his lips, painting the water pink. He can feel his heartbeat thumping through to Dean’s forehead. Cas wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, painting it red.

”Dean,” Cas starts, sighing all the way down to his stomach. With effort, he picks his head up from around the toilet bowl, and leans more of his weight back against Dean.

”Hang on, Cas, let’s go-- yeah, just-- careful now.” Dean mutters, more to himself than to Castiel, as they shift around so Dean can lean his back against the wall with Cas between his knees. Castiel feels Dean’s breathing in his whole body. His head swims, but Dean is there. Solid.

”Dean, I... “ Cas starts again, leaning his head back onto Dean’s shoulder. “I am not good at being subtle. I have never seen the point to it, to be honest with you.”

”No, really?” Dean serves his sarcasm with a smile. If Cas had more energy, he would glare.

”Dean, we are going on a date.” It is not a question. Cas lets it hang in the air. Slowly, barely, Dean nods. “On Friday. I will be there at seven and you will wear something nice.”

”Okay. Yeah. It’s a date.” Dean agrees, slowly, like he’s tasting the words. “But uh, Cas?”

”What?” If the boy is going to be any more difficult, Castiel might just… Well, he doesn’t know what he would do.

”Can we make it next Friday? I don’t want you dying on our doorstep.”

To Cas’ surprise, he laughs. It echoes through the bathroom, and his chest.

”Do not worry, Dean. I am not dying.”

It is true.

”But you are sick.”

”I am always sick.”

”I know.” Dean says, pulling an arm around Cas’ stomach. “I know.”

 

sammy i need ur help

of course you do dean

well fuck u 2 kid

thats not my job now is it?

...

fine what do you need help with?

ive got a date. with cas.

Thats what i like to hear.


	20. This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gggay lmao

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: food, mentions of hunger and anxiety, sensuality/physical affection/minor sexuality, penises

Dean wrings out the towel in his hands, although it’s nearly bone dry by now. He stares at himself hard in the mirror: he has a rounder face than Cas’, with a fresh shaving nick just below his jaw. His eyes are wide and they look heavy, like he hasn’t been sleeping. He runs a hand through his hair for the thousandth time that evening.

”Damn it.” He curses out loud. “It’s just Cas,” he tries to tell himself. He makes a face in the mirror.

”Dean?” Sam’s voice is muffled from across the house, probably somewhere in the kitchen. “Are you ready yet? It’s after six forty-five!”

Damn it. “Just give me a minute, Sammy!” Dean shouts back, slapping his cheeks lightly.

”You said that an hour ago!”

”Hey, fuck you!”

”You said that, too!”

Dean rolls his eyes and goes back to the mirror. “It’s just Cas.” He tells himself again, finally turning away. He takes a deep breath and flicks the bathroom light off on his way out.

All the lights are on in the kitchen, and something smells _amazing_ from where Dean’s standing in the living room.

”What’s all this?” Dean strolls over to Sam, who’s tied his hair back in a loose ponytail and is wearing a stained “Kiss the Cook” apron.

”Your date.” Sam looks up from the recipe book and makes a motion towards the table. Oh. Dean turns.

The kitchen table is clean, covered in a white tablecloth that looks suspiciously like the spare sheets they keep above the dryer. There are two plates on either end of the table, each with silverware and a red cloth napkin. A couple of mismatched candles sit in the middle, and there’s an empty vase as the centerpiece.

”My date?” Dean echoes, dumbfounded.

”Cas wanted some extra help.” Sam explains, not looking up from the stovetop.

_Oh, shit._ Something hits Dean in his chest, something big and surprisingly gentle.

”Fuck.” He says again, more into the empty air than to his brother. “Fuck, Sammy, what am I doing?”

”Uh,” Sam looks at him over the rim of his steamed up glasses. “Going on a date with Cas?”

”Yeah. Yeah, I know, but--” Dean stops. “Hang on, where’s Gabe?”

”He’s with Jess for the night.”

”The whole night?”

”Yeah.” Sam shrugs.

Well.

Before Dean can process that any further, there’s a knock at the door.

Dean runs a hand through his hair three more times and thinks maybe he should have gotten flowers, before he yanks the door open to reveal a very well-put-together Castiel, holding a fresh bouquet. They shuffle inside.

Cas has on his usual trenchcoat, a white button-up, and a blue tie that’s been flipped backwards.

”Uh,” Dean stammers, before remembering himself. “Hey Cas. You look, uh, you look good, man.” He gestures to Cas’ tie. Cas doesn’t move to fix it. Dean wants to.

”Hello to you too, Dean.” Dean is suddenly very aware of how he looks: the red vest that’s a little too big, the pants with a tear in the knee. But Cas doesn’t seem to notice, he only holds the flowers out to him: they’re fresh, a couple whose petals fade from white to blue-violet, with a yellow center, and a cluster of pink ones that look like four-pointed stars with orange centers. “Siberian squill, and Daphne odora.” Cas points to the purple and pink flowers, respectively. “Fresh from Eden.”

”I didn’t know flowers bloomed this early in the year.” Dean remarks.

”Well, the Daphnes are more vibrant in the winter, but the Scilla always bloom early.”

”Good to know,” Dean says, meaning it. He takes a sniff, but they just smell like regular old flowers to him. He sneezes.

”Cas!” Sam says, popping up after digging through one of the lower cabinets.

”Hello, Sam.” Cas gives his usual crooked smile.

”You’re early! I’m not done yet!”

”My apologies, my mother had to leave for work earlier than usual tonight.”

”Hey, that’s no problem.” Dean interrupts before Sam can steal the conversation. “Let’s just sit down.”

”Yes,” Cas agrees.

Dean sticks the flowers in the empty vase.

At the table, he slides the chair out for Cas.

”I can seat myself, Dean.” Cas insists, looking indignant.

”I--” Dean pauses. “I know, I’m just helping you out. Date etiquette.”

”Is this date etiquette?” The word ‘date’ coming from Cas’ mouth makes Dean’s throat go dry.

”Uh,” Dean thinks. Most of the ‘dates’ he’s been on have involved a bong and very little clothing, or a movie theatre and very little clothing, or the bathroom at a restaurant and… Well. “Yeah, yeah it is.”

”Oh, well, carry on, then.” Cas takes a seat as Dean pushes the chair in. They smile at one another, once Dean takes his seat across the table.

 

Sam toils around in the kitchen for a while longer before bringing out a couple of menus. They’re made of carefully crafted construction paper, with Cafe di Winchester at the top, in Jess’ looping handwriting. There are small hearts next to each course. Granted, there are only three items on the menu, two main courses and a dessert. But that’s more hearts than Dean’s ready to see.

”Oh, this is one of _those_ places,” he remarks, smirking. “Yeah, just shut up and eat it, kiddo.” He mocks, in a voice that sounds more like his father than he wants to admit.

”I’m looking forward to what Sam has prepared for us.” Cas says, eyeing the menu carefully.

Yeah, it does sound good. Especially the _Maccheroni di Novak_. Dean thinks anything ‘D Novak’ sounds like it belongs in his mouth. Not that he’d tell Sam that in a million years.

Dean looks up from the menu and over to Cas. Cas’ eyes look a little more sunk than usual, and is that gel making his hair stick up like that? Where on earth did he get hair gel?

”Jo helped me prepare.” Cas admits when he catches Dean’s eye.

”I can see that.” Dean smirks. “You look good, man. Cas. You look nice.”

”Thank you.” Cas looks into his lap.

There’s a moment of silence where Dean does nothing more than look at Castiel. The way he scans his hands with his eyes, the slow blink that brings his gaze back up to the table, and then to Dean. His backwards tie, that Dean’s hands are itching to fix. Or just to tug off him. Dean looks at Castiel, and he _wants_.

Dean isn’t sure how long he sits there studying Cas, but before he knows it, Sam is setting a very large bowl of macaroni down in front of him. The gooey cheese on top is shining; Dean can nearly see his reflection in it. He digs in, and almost immediately spits it back out.

”Fuck,” he curses, wiping his now numb tongue with his napkin.

”Careful, it’s hot.” Sam teases from back in the kitchen.

Dean considers chucking his fork at the kid.

His stomach growls, embarrassingly loud under the table. It was early this morning the last time he ate, he realizes. He looks at Cas, who’s blowing on his spoon gently before shoving a very large glob of macaroni in his mouth. He gets some cheese on his lip. Dean swallows.

”I’ve got it so bad,” he mutters to himself. Cas looks up.

”Are you feeling okay?” He asks, setting his spoon down.

”What? Yeah, I was just…” Dean fumbles, not realizing Cas could hear him. “I’ve, uh, I guess I’ve got it pretty bad for you.”

All Cas does is nod. But when he takes his next bite, he stops and licks his lips in a very slow circle.

God _damn_ it.

Dean tears himself away to look at his own bowl of macaroni. It’s steaming, and there are little breadcrumbs sprinkled on top. Dean’s mouth waters for a totally different reason, now.

He makes sure to blow on each bite, and even though it doesn’t taste quite as rich with his burnt taste buds, it’s still the absolute best thing he’s eaten in a long time.

Cas doesn’t say anything either, it’s just the two of them sitting at the kitchen table, enjoying dinner. Judging by how hungrily Cas is digging into his own bowl, Dean figures he hasn’t eaten a lot today, either.

When their spoons are scraping the bottom of their bowls, they both look back up. Cas lets out a heavy belch.

”I must say, my mother’s recipe has never tasted quite as satisfying before.”

”Must be ‘cause you’re here with me,” Dean waggles his eyebrows. “Wait, this is your mom’s recipe?”

”Yes, from when we were living in Italy. Although I have no idea how Sam got it in the first place.” Cas glances over to Sam in the kitchen.

”Are you kidding? Bobby will talk about food for hours, he gave Miss Novak a call a few days ago and I got the recipe from him.”

”Yeah, that sounds like Bobby.” Dean muses, “I got him to un-ground us one summer by finding him a steak sauce he hadn’t tried yet.”

”I didn’t know your uncle was in charge of your punishments.” Cas says.

”Really? Yeah, we’ve spent a few summers with him.” Dean is glad the candles on the table are short, he can look over them and right at Cas. The orange light flickers across his face, which the color is warming back into. Cas smiles. Dean feels warm.

”Since you guys are talking, you ready for the next course?” Sam asks, balancing a couple plates on his arm.

”Lay it on me, Sammy,” Dean says, patting his tummy.

It’s a two layer bacon cheeseburger with extra ketchup, exactly how Dean likes it.

”Damn, Cas, I should take you out more often, if Sam’s feeding us like this.”

”I hope that’s not the only reason you have for taking me out.” Cas raises his eyebrows.

”Nope, just the macaroni and burgers, sorry.” Dean’s sarcasm is sharp, and Cas picks it up easy.

”That’s okay, I’m here for Sam and Gabe anyway.”

”Oh, awesome. Glad we’re on the same page.”

There’s something very _good_ pulsing through Dean as he smiles at Castiel. More than just arousal, something light, and easy. He doesn’t have a word for it, yet.

As expected, the burger is fantastic. Dean and Cas talk between bites this time.

”So Jo helped you out?”

”Yes,” Cas tries to look up at his own hairline. “She did my hair.”

”And the tie?”

”I tied it myself.” Cas has his proud, crooked smile on, so Dean doesn’t say anything else.

They munch more.

”Oh, dude, I totally forgot to ask, how did your appointment go?” Dean asks, kicking himself for not remembering sooner.

”The one last weekend? It went fine, although I am on a higher dosage of a couple of my medicines, now.”

Dean’s been sick before, of course, as has Sammy, but not the way Cas is. The higher the dose, the higher the sick, is how Dean’s always thought of it.

”But you’re alright? I mean, you’re okay?” Maybe his worry bleeds into his voice, because Cas puts his burger down before answering.

”Yes, Dean. I am okay.” He smiles again.

Cas does look okay.

 

Sam offers them their last course, but Dean and Cas both decide to wait on dessert. Dean looks at Cas, then at Sam, and then at just how small the kitchen is with all three of them together. He cocks his head at Cas.

”Let’s go for a walk?”

Cas nods.

It’s a warm night. A couple of insects are already buzzing around, and there are weeds growing next to the piles of dirty, gray snow that hasn’t melted yet. Dean can hear Cas’ breathing next to him as they walk.

There aren’t a lot of places for privacy in Dean’s neighborhood, especially on nice nights like tonight, but that doesn’t really bother Dean. It isn’t until his palm starts sweating that he realizes they’ve been holding hands.

Well, he can deal with a little sweat.

They come to a bench near where Cas made his confession over Christmas break. It’s shrouded by some evergreens, pretty out-of-sight from anyone who doesn’t know it’s there, and Castiel plops down, breathing labored.

”Take your time.” Is all Dean says. He takes a seat next to Cas.

Cas screws up his expression and curses, more to himself than anything else.

His inhaler is red, and he puffs and holds it twice in a row. Slowly, he exhales.

”I am okay, now.” Is the first thing he says, after a very long pause. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head. “What? I didn’t do anything.”

Cas looks at Dean and takes another puff.

Dean has never wanted to be called _darling_ before, it reminds him of Charlie’s elderly aunt that he met once. But the way Cas breathes out ‘oh, darling.’ before pulling Dean in by the collar, well, Dean doesn’t want to be called anything else.


	21. Chandelier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tentative revival to this story.
> 
> Note: I originally uploaded this chapter a couple of days ago, but since have added a scene and decided to reupload it.
> 
> Thank you Binta for the sensitivity read!

Castiel is sure of one thing: Dean Winchester is going to kill him. Not the way his lungs are going to kill him, but the way Cas loses his breath whenever Dean steals a kiss is definitely, definitely doing something.

Cas is sure of another thing: he didn’t move this much before Dean. Sure, he paced his room, he went on walks, but this was different. He twiddles his pens, doodles in the margins of his books-- even his teachers ask him if he’s feeling quite alright-- he tears the corners of his notebook off just to give his hands something to do.

Of course, Castiel knows what he really wants to do is touch Dean. To run his hands through Dean’s short hair, down his chest and a few other places, and touch him like he hasn’t been allowed to before. Castiel wants to fall to his knees and pray to the altar of Dean Winchester’s body. Claps his hands around Dean like he’s clutching a rosary, whispering prayers into Dean’s freckled skin.

Dean right now is sprawled over Cas’ bed, his shirt discarded somewhere (false, it’s halfway under Cas’ bed, right next to where Cas carved his own name, and Cas knows because Dean stripped it off as soon as they got into the room.) flipping idly through Samandriel’s copy of Slaughterhouse Five. Cas sits cross-legged at Dean’s knee, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of Dean’s thigh.

“You’ve seriously never read this one?” Dean asks, not looking up. As he heads, Dean’s eyelashes leave long shadows on his cheeks.

“I never found it in me.”

“Can I take it, then?” Dean looks up when he asks, eyes gentle but pleading.

“Of course.”

Dean closes the book with one finger in it, and gives Cas a kiss. Cas smiles.

“Thanks. Man, Sammy’s gonna be so proud of me. Actually reading somethin’.” Dean says. He takes his free hand and finds Cas’ fingers, twining them together.

“Dean, would you like to meet Adra?” Cas asks suddenly.

“Uh. I’ve already met her, dude.”

Cas huffs, mostly at himself.

“No, I meant meet her as my boyfriend.”

Dean falters. He looks at their hands, sitting together on his leg.

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

Cas stops in the hall bathroom to get his inhaler. Re-shirted Dean goes down to the kitchen without waiting, giving him a moment alone with Adra. Their voices float up the stairs; Cas hears his name.

“Mother.” He calls, descending the stairs with one hand white knuckling the railing.

“Yes, dear?” Adra says.

“Don’t start without me.” He must’ve sounded tired, because Adra’s face appears at the bottom of the stairs, lips pursed and arms crossed.

The kitchen lights are fading in the evening, and the chandelier giving off fluorescent light is up up up high. Adra and Dean both mirror’s Cas’ small steps into the kitchen, holding an elbow out for him should he need it.

“Mother…” Cas starts, then stops to take a puff of his inhaler, then another. He leans on Dean’s open arm. His lungs open, the cool, sticky medicine pumping through him. “Dean and I are dating.”

Adra takes a moment, looking from her son to Dean on the left flank, as if seeing him for the first time. Her eyes linger on the points of contact between them, with Castiel loathes to admit is shoulder, elbow, and hip.

”I know I haven’t…” Adra sighs. She looks from Dean to her son. “I haven’t been the best mother. I haven’t been there for you, you know, in the real way.” She screws up her face, something between a wince and a scowl. Castiel can only guess at whom. “If this is what you want to do, then I won’t be the one to stop you.”  
“Mother…” Cas says. He doesn’t finish his thought.

Dean looks at him. He really looks at Castiel, with wide green eyes and an open mouth. He looks like Castiel is an angel, or more, like Castiel is God Himself. Adra looks at Castiel, with eyes sunk into her head like a dug, waiting grave. Her smile is tight-lipped, but there.

.

“I’m just saying, if you’re forcing me to wear a monkey suit, I at least deserve to know why!” Sam whines, tugging at the collar of his crisp, thrifted white shirt. His hair is pulled back into a ponytail and he has a thick, purple scarf piled in his lap. “Also, will you ever fix your fucking car?”

“Language.” Dean clips. He drums the steering wheel with his hands, a bead of sweat sliding down his neck.

Cas straightens up, trying to tuck his shirt— also white but from a regular department store, deeper into the wide waistband of his pants. They had fit a handful of months ago when he bought them.

He swallows the unpleasant thought and looks at Sam, grimaces in solidarity. Dean insisted he stay the night last night, despite Cas having an appointment that afternoon and wanting nothing more than the warmth of his own bed. Dean even helped Cas pack a bag, although Cas now suspects it was less out of goodwill and more out of Dean’s cunning plan to get them all into, as Sam called them, monkey suits. Dean woke both Sam and him up as the sun was coming up, with coffee and burnt eggs, saying they had to look their absolute best for today. Mr. Winchester had said something to Dean over coffee that Castiel couldn’t hear, and it put Dean in a bad mood for all of five minutes, until he was reminded what _today_ was.

Today, as it’s turning out, means being in Dean’s boiling car with a staticky radio and Sam complaining every chance he gets, all while Dean says little more than two words and looks in his rearview much more than is strictly necessary.

Cas tries not to grimace when Dean looks at him. His chest is on fire, his throat is tight. He is sweating under his arms and freezing on his fingertips. He seriously, sincerely, wants to kill his boyfriend, and then take a long nap.

“How much looonger, Deeean?” Sam asks.

“We’ll never get there if you don’t shut up and let me drive.” Dean says. “Shit. Uh. We just passed Swan Song Avenue, so we should be looking for a big building on our right. Private school somethin’. Keep an eye out, Sammy, Cas.”

Cas is the one who spots it after another minute of driving: a tall, brick building with a white awning and several thick pillars holding it up. Indeed, on the side, Isaiah Institute. There are a handful of people mulling around the entrance, some smoking, some not, all dressed in similar suits or dark dresses of varying length.  


One of the women is short, of larger build, with dirty blonde hair in a bun that’s falling out. She has on a black jacket and a green button-up vest, in one of the pockets rests a cigarette box. She’s holding a cigarette between two fingers, puffing impatiently. An angry, hungry feeling gnaws in Cas’ stomach.  


“Is that Ellen?” Sam asks, squinting.

Oh. Cas looks closer at the woman as they drive by. Indeed, it is Ellen. Dean gives her a wave, then wheels the car into a parking space. She makes her way over, swallowing smoke until it’s down to the orange.

“You made it.” She says, smiling at all of them. It falters when she sees Cas, but she pulls him into a too-tight hug anyway. “Good to see you, kid. Jo’ll be thrilled too.”

“Jo?” Cas asks, cocking his head to the side. Of course, if Ellen was here, Jo couldn’t be far behind. Cas can’t remember a time he’d seen Ellen in anything but jeans and an old flannel, so this must mean... Of course. Cas gasps when he realizes. “This is her piano recital.” He says.

“Ch’yeah it is. She’s not too keen on most people knowing, but she wanted you guys to come.” Ellen’s eyes sparkle. “Ash, too, but he had a thing.”

“What else is family for if they can’t know your embarrassing secrets?” Dean snarks. Ellen laughs, an open, full-body thing.

“You got that right. Come on, it’s starting.”

They have seats near the front. Initially, Sam is in the aisle seat next to Dean, but he trades as soon as Cas suggests it. Cas has two inhalers tucked into his pockets, and if he needs to make a quick getaway he should be on the aisle to do it.

“Like a Bond villain.” Sam says, nodding in approval.

Cas doesn’t think that’s right, but he honestly isn’t sure.

The lights drop, and all conversation hushes.

Jo, as it turns out, is the third act, not the first. The first is a large woman in a suit similar to Ellen’s, playing a flute duet with a much smaller pianist in plain, concert black. It’s a lovely piece, and Cas is so enraptured he almost forgets to clap at the end.

There’s a moment of shuffle between the first act and the second. Cas steps out, and into the men’s bathroom down the hall. He doesn’t have long. He feels for the inhaler in his pocket, the blue one, and takes a puff. Then the green. In the mirror, his hair is lost the battle with the gel he tried to glob onto it this morning, with one clump sticking up like a ducktail or a low-budget anime protagonist. His cheeks have hollowed. His eyes are his mother’s.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Hurry!

He runs back. The solid wood doors are closed, and an attendant stands to the side. They’re dark doors with curved patterns cut into them, and a shiny brass handle. When Cas hears clapping, he pulls the door. It’s heavy.

Jo comes on stage as he slides back into his seat. Even so close to the stage, Cas has to do a double take. Her hair is pinned in tight curls, stuck together with a blue netted thing with beads dangling from it. She has on a dress that’s shimmering blue, off the shoulder, and short white gloves that she sets out the sheet music with. Then, she plays.

It starts slow, a one-handed melody almost like a scale with a few extras thrown in. Then it builds, bringing both her gloved hands onto the keys. Up and down, fluttering, flying over the piano. All the while her face is set in a concentrated frown, her dark eyebrows tight, but her shoulders relaxed. The song makes Castiel think of children, running in a garden of a big stone house, screeching in laughter, as they are eventually caught in the rain. They’re not discouraged, though, they only laugh harder and kick the mud up around their knees.

If Castiel has children, he thinks, he would like them to be like this song. Carefree, unafraid of rain.

The song continues, with several thunder cracks and the children shuffling inside, their mother scolding them but wrapping them tight in towels. They splash each other in the bath that follows, and splash, and splash, and screech again in laughter. The song ends with their mother looking at them fondly, as she drips bathwater from her brow.

It is raining on Castiel’s face when the song ends.

He throws himself up to a standing ovation. Others stand as well. Dean whistles. Jo beams, and flushes when she catches Cas’ eye. Then she bows, and exits.

The rest of the performances are wonderful. One man sings a solo from a French opera that Castiel saw one time in France. This man did a much better job than the scrawny white man they’d chosen for the part. Cas spots him in the crowd while they’re waiting for Jo, and tells him such.

“Oh dude, really? That means so much to me, thank you. You know, I almost didn’t perform it this year, ‘cause my grandmomma’s in the crowd and she’s a harsh critic. She didn’t think anyone would want to see a Black man singin’ a white man’s song, you know, I thought I didn’t want to disappoint her, but, you, you really made my day, do you mind if I tell my grandmomma what you said? What’d you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. It’s Castiel.” Cas says. The man smiles. “I always pictured your character as Black, especially with the symbolism in the bank scene.”

“The bank scene? With his girlfriend? I always thought so.” The man agrees, nodding. “Wait, Castiel. Like the angel? Tight, man. I’m Ru. Well, Rupert, but everyone calls me Ru.”

They shake hands. Ru’s is warm and smooth.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ru.”

Someone calls for Ru, an old woman with long white-grey dreadlocks. Ru gives Cas a quick, one-arm hug and goes to his grandmother. They talk for a minute and Grandmomma gives Cas a smile.

Cas reconvenes with his group, and grabs for Dean’s hand. They collected Jo and presented her with two different bouquets while Cas was gone. Her eyes are shining.  
“I saw your waterworks, Cas. I didn’t know you had a leak.” She says, laughing and sniffling at the same time.

“I didn’t either.” Cas says. “I am a faucet, I guess.” They all laugh.

“Thank you for coming. Seriously.” Jo says, smiling at her bouquets and then the floor.

“Can I hug you?” Cas asks.

“Uh. Yeah. Yes.” Jo falters, then lifts her eyes and arms. The flowers follow in her right hand. Her hug is firm, clasping around Cas’ shoulders and into his spine. She smells like soap and a memory of perfume.

They finish their hug and Cas’ eyes are wet again. He takes Jo’s free hand.

“You did spectacular.” He insists.

“Okay, okay.” Ellen says, “I think we’ve spoiled Jo enough.” She fishes a cigarette out of her pocket and tucks it behind her ear. Jo’s shoulders drop. Castiel hadn’t realized they were so tight. Oops. “This is cause for celebration! Burgers and fries, on me!”

Dean cheers.


	22. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uhhh trigger warning violence

This is boring. Dean doesn’t want to admit he’s bored, because he’s laying on Cas’ bed, hunched over a copy of Frankenstein, with Cas beside him doing the same. Cas stuck a pen between his teeth, chewing it idly.

“Can we take a break? It’s been--” Dean looks at his watch, “forever.”

“We need to finish this.” Cas huffs, turning a page. He underlines a passage. Dean groans.

“Ugh. I’m just getting a bunch of crap. I don’t know how you do this.”

“Something Victor said stuck out to me, we can analyze it in our paper.”

Dean groans, again.

“This entire book is something Victor says.” Dean huffs. He closes his book and slides off the bed on Cas’ side. Cas twiddles with his pen, his tongue sticking between his teeth. Dean doesn’t like how skeletal Cas’ whole face has looked lately, but that flash of pink lets him shove off that thought for later. Cas is sitting cross-legged, as usual, and Dean slides his hands up to Cas’ knees. “C’mon, a break.” He raises his eyebrows when Cas finally looks up at him. Cas stops what he’s doing and closes the book. Dean breaks into a crooked smile.

Then Cas closes his eyes. “No.” Cas says. “Dean, you can get a bite from the kitchen or something, I don’t care.”

Dean squints. Cas’ eyes have dark shadows under them. His lips, beautiful, dark, usually smooth and dry, okay Dean focus, his lips are cracking, even though Dean’s seen him practically eat the tube of chapstick on his desk. And he’s pale; None of his usual rosiness is there.

Dean sighs. He takes his hands off Cas’ knee and pinches his nose.

“No, it’s fine.” He says. His chest feels tight. “I’m sorry, Cas.”

“I understand.”

“Okay. Well, can I hear what you’re thinkin’? About Victor?”

Cas perks up, straightening himself.

“Certainly.

“Victor promised his creation a companion here, see, after the creation told him his story and asked for a partner to love. Now, Victor I believe, represents God and His relationships to people, or at least, what happens when man tries to become God. What Victor really needs to do is love his creation, not create a wife for him who's equally as terrifying. Ergo, what God needs to do is love his people.”

Dean snorts, then kicks himself for snorting. Cas glares.

“I’m sorry, Cas, I just, I’m never gonna get that.”

“I know, Dean. You don’t have to.” He says it slowly, like it’s painful.

“I just…” He shouldn’t do this. “God should love his people, yeah, but he doesn’t. That’s the age-old riddle, innit? He’s so powerful and loving, but kids still get cancer. Cops shoot innocent people. You know, Voltaire has this whole essay on like, if God knows and he just doesn’t care, then we can’t call him benevolent, can we?” Shut up, Winchester, keep your God damned mouth shut. “He’s just some omnipotent asshole. I really don’t think the moral is that God _should_ love his people, it’s that this is what happens when he he doesn-.”

Dean didn’t think about it until Cas had stood and curled his fists, but he was deeply, deeply fucked. Cas’ fist collides with Dean’s stomach. There was more force behind it than Dean had thought possible. He doubles over.

“Fuck!” He spits. Cas moves closer. He throws another punch that lands near Dean’s shoulder, then another on his chest.

Dean Winchester does what Dean Winchester does: he hits back, fist to Cas’ bony arm.

“What the fuck?”

“Do you think you matter?” Cas says. He doesn’t respond to Dean’s fist, which throbs on impact. It doesn’t sound like a question, so Dean doesn’t answer, only holds his hand out dumbly. “You think God cares what you say about Him? He has a plan for each of us, Dean. And sometimes it sucks! Sometimes kids get cancer! Or cystic fib--”

Dean isn’t sure if Cas finishes the word, because Cas’ hands are colliding with Dean’s chest and pushing. “He doesn’t care what you think of Him!” Dean slams into the wall space between the two high windows. The beginnings of a bruise burns where he hits. “He knows what He’s doing!” Cas swings for his face and Dean has enough sense to duck, but not fast enough. Cas hits his cheek and pain blooms. Then Cas grabs his lapels and shakes. “And it doesn’t matter how much you fucking beg! You can’t stop this.” 

Dean grabs at one of Cas’ arms, tries to tug down, but Cas holds firm.

“Cas,” Dean croaks. He reaches a purpling hand up to Cas’ chest, between the buttons of his shirt. “Please.”

Castiel stops.

He stares, tired eyes going wide. Dean drops to the floor, collapsing at Cas’ feet. His breath comes in shallow, heaving sobs.

“Get out.” Castiel says.

Dean puts his hands up, and shuffles on his knees towards the trapdoor.

The last thing he sees before he drops down is Castiel with light pouring in around him, taking a puff of his inhaler. His hands are red, his face shiny and wet.

_________

Castiel isn’t in class the Wednesday they have to present the project. Dean expected this. The only contact he’d gotten from Cas the last week was an email sent at three in the morning, with the essay they’d written attached, and nothing else. Cas usually had a signature, one of those automatic ones, and Dean chuckles to think Cas went through the effort to delete it before sending.

One of Dean’s classmates gives him a sobering look, and Dean knows they’re noticing the yellowing bruise on his cheek, the scrapes on his knuckles.

The teacher already knows, Dean finds out, about Cas’ absence. She assures Dean he doesn’t have to present until Cas is feeling better. Dean almost laughs. Almost.  


“No thanks, teach, I think I can do it alone.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to present the whole essay, which came to a whopping ten pages at the end of it. Dean praises Cas’ ability to make sense of his chicken scratch. He has to give a brief summary and give some quotes. Their title: Love and God.

A handful of people go before him. One guy pronounces Frankenstein differently each time he says it, and one girl goes on a tangent about how awful the Hollywood Frankenstein is. She has a point, which is probably why Nisbet lets her go on so long. Then, it’s Dean’s turn.

“Hi,” He says. A couple classmates say hi back. The bad pronouncer guy smiles at him, nodding a little in a way that says you got this, dude. “Uh, I’m Dean Winchester. My partner Cas...tiel Novak is out sick today, the bastard-- oops. Sorry, teach.” That gets a couple laughs. “Honestly I think he planned it. Getting sick the one day we have to present.” Cas has been out all week, but they don’t need to know that. 

“But yeah, uh, we wrote about how Victor Frankenstein represents God and the monster, sorry, creature, is all Earth’s people. Honestly, Victor’s kind of a dick. Sorry, teach, but he is. He’s too smart for his own good, like, he could’ve been a revolutionary scientist, you know, and what does he do? He shuts himself away for months and steals bodies from graveyards. Not the kind of God I’d want, I don’t know about you. And he does this for months without even thinking about what it all means, you know? So when he’s done with his, heh, project, he’s totally overwhelmed and he hates himself.

“But the creature he creates, man. What a guy. He’s not a typical man, he’s made of odds and ends of a lot of different dead people, sure. He’s kind of an angry zombie. But really strong, like, unexpectedly strong. And this creature is mega-smart, like reads classics for fun kind of smart. He’s kind as hell but people don’t like him. People are cruel, you know, like, we’re cruel about the good things we don’t understand. The creature isn’t angry at them, though, he’s angry ‘cause God doesn’t love him. Victor. The creature doesn’t really care about the other people, but Victor? He wants Victor to love him. He deserves Victor’s love. And like, why be a parent if you can’t love your kid unconditionally, right?

“Uh.” Dean glances down at the paper. “Yeah. F-- sh-- crap, I forgot the quotes, uh, but you guys get the idea, right?” Most of the class looks bored, but a few of them agree. The teacher nods, and makes some notes on a paper.

Dean bows a big dramatic bow, and his classmates laugh and clap politely.

While the next pair sets up, Dean fishes his phone out of his pocket.

hey man can we talk?

It isn’t a minute later when he gets a response.

Yes, absolutely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> question for yall, is this chapter too much of an emotional whiplash? theres a lot going on.  
> also, thoughts on the Frankenstein Metaphor? ;)


	23. Lamplight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Dean talk.
> 
> Content warning: discussions of death. Manual and oral sex

sry this took so long sam had a club n then i had 2 make dinner

look cas im…. sorry

really sorry

That is okay, I know you have responsibilities.

No, Dean it was completely my fault. I overreacted, and I hurt you.

thx man

i mean yea u did, but i also know this shit upsets u so i shouldnt have said it, u know?

Dean

sry sry. not shit, its stuff. this stuff upsets u

Castiel sighs. He picks at a scar on the kitchen table, balances the salt shaker on the back of his good hand.

It does. I have no excuse for what I did. But, I do have something of an explanation.

yea? im all ears

What you said really hit a nerve because I have been... having those same doubts lately. I know it’s… blasphemous to even think that, but I’m… Im so tired, Dean, and i can’t make sense of it.

:(

i had no idea dude.

i guess ive been like feelin those things bc lately uve been bad man. like, u look sick. sicker than normal. 

You’ve been… worried about me?

yea dumbass

Oh.

sorry i didnt mean it like that just jfc what did u think

I apologize.

no fuck dude cas i just…

im sorry i provoked you. that was not cool

I’m sorry I lashed out at you.

ur frgiven

I forgive you, too.

ok

Okay.

so were ok? nothing else u wanna confess?

No, I think I am alright.

…

Thank you.

Castiel sighs a long, slow sigh. The bruising on his ribs pinches on his exhale. He puts his phone down on the table. The back of his hand is purple and blue, puffy, and his knuckles are scabbed. A headache threatens to pound behind his eyes. On the table next to the salt and pepper is a row of Cas’ inhalers and medicines, organized in rainbow order.

Adra flips a burger in the pan and it sizzles, garlic and oil stinking up the kitchen. She throws a couple more seasonings on the meat. She has a black apron overtop her crisp white shirt with her sleeves rolled up. Her hair is in a work-tight bun.

“That was Dean,” Castiel says. Adra stops cooking, her shoulders tensing under her shirt. She turns the heat down and looks at Castiel.

“Is everything okay?” She asks slowly, not blinking as she scans Cas’ face.

Cas looks down at his hands before answering. The words tumble like rocks from his mouth.

“It is now. We… We have just made up,” he says.

Adra tucks an invisible piece of hair behind her ear. She shifts on her feet.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Adra asks, each word a sweetgum seed falling from her mouth. She winces.

“Yes,” He decides. “But finish cooking first.”

She does. She plates two burgers for Castiel and one burger for her, each one with onion, pickles, ketchup, two slices of American cheese, and a glass of water for each of them. The seat next to Castiel is empty; she takes it. She has on a loose red tie.

“I was thinking about… Just two weeks ago we had a movie night, me and the Winchesters, and Jo, and Ash, and Ash decided to reenact a scene from Titanic, and he broke the Winchester’s coffee table. And, I don’t recall ever laughing harder. I don’t know what to think any more.” Castiel is silent for a moment, his fingers fiddling an unstarted prayer. “I feel as if I’m holding a funeral for what might have been.”

The rain on Castiel’s face from Jo’s recital reappears and falls to the back of his bruised hands.

“Cas,” Adra says, voice gravelly. She reaches over to Castiel’s hands and envelopes them. Her fingers are cool under his throbbing bruises. “Your friends know you are sick, don’t they?”

The confession to Jo and Ash had been a couple months ago, during a potluck lunch. Ash asked a few questions and Jo squeezed Castiel's shoulder. Overall, little had changed.

“Um. Yes. They do,” Cas says.

“And they know you, don’t they?” Adra asks.

After Ash had broken the table, and Castiel was wheezing laughter, Jo had brought him a box of tissues and Sam had grabbed his inhaler. Dean had suggested next time, perhaps Cas not be the iceburg. Too emotional. He’d try to save everyone on the ship instead of sinking it. That brought another round of laughter and Cas gifting Dean a very fond kiss.

“Yes,” Cas says. Adra looks at him, her brows knitted tight over her eyes.

“Then there is no ‘might’ about it, Castiel. You have them. They are yours, now and forever.”

Mine. Castiel lets the word sit in his mouth. Without warning, thunder by way of a sob opens in Cas’ throat. Thunder, and enough rain to water all of Eden. He did not think he was in drought. His friends are his. They are his.

“They are mine,” Castiel chokes through his tears. Adra leaves her dinner and crashes into him. Leftover pain stings Cas’s chest and his hands. He grips tighter, squeezing her wing-like shoulders, burying his face in her chest. She smells of spices and sweet soap. Nutmeg. She is his, too. He wants to apologize for not realizing it. He goes to speak but his mouth is gummy and pressed into her shoulder.

Her fingers twine through Cas’ hair, petting front to back. Instead of speaking, Cas blubbers until he shakes. Heat pools off his mother’s body and into him. He tucks an ear onto her chest and listens to her heartbeat through his shaky sobs.

“Oh, my son, my son.” She murmurs into his hair.

Only when Castiel is sufficiently warmed and no longer crying does she step back. Her tie is askew and her shoulder has a large wet spot on it. She looks at it and grimaces.

“Well, it would seem I have to go change,” She tells him, smiling. She is shaking a little, perhaps from the sudden cold at their loss of contact. He smiles at her, though it’s crooked. She heaves a relieved sort of sigh, and looks at the clock over the stove. “I have work tonight. Business from Japan.” She looks from him to his phone, which is lighting up with a text. “I’m leaving soon, I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Yes. Okay.” Castiel says. He takes a long, slow drink of water. His head clears a good bit. “Mother?” He says as she starts to leave.

“Son?” She turns.

“Thank you.”

It isn’t until she sheds her tie and goes upstairs that something connects in Castiel’s fuzzy, over-cried brain.

Come over tonight.

uh ok. when?

My mother leaves at 9.

Ok. ill be there 930?

Please do.

.

.

.

 

Cas hears the crunch of gravel a few seconds before his phone buzzes on the nightstand.

here

The door should be unlocked.

yea comin up

Cas’ heart skips in his chest. He puts his book down to rest on his lap. He coughs a mouthful of gross into a tissue and sits back. He picks his book up, but each words blurs into _Dean_ and _he’s here_ and _we are totally alone in this house._

Cas’ heart all but stops in his throat when the telltale scraping of ladder over wood floor comes through the trapdoor. After a few swears, Dean sticks his head through. A huge sigh escapes Castiel. He deposits his book on the nightstand.

Dean has his ratty bookbag, no doubt empty of all books, slung over one shoulder. He discards it at the foot of Cas’ bed and Castiel has time to blink before Dean is hovering over him, his hands on either side of Cas’ body. There is a yellowing bruise just under Dean’s eye, and an angry red scab overlapping it. Dean’s breath is warm on Cas’ face.

“Dean,” Castiel sighs and leans up to kiss him. Mine, he thinks. Dean is mine. There’s a moment of hesitation from Dean, but then they’re kissing, moving together. Cas’ lips are chapped and stick to Dean’s, who is sporting a tender blue bruise. Cas kisses it lightly. “I’m sorry,” He murmurs to the bruise.

“Dude,” Dean pauses their kiss. “We’ve been over this.”

Dean’s eyes are soft, and his brows are peaked in a worry triangle. “Fuck, Cas.” And he kisses him fervently, open-mouthed, wet. Cas responds in kind, snaking a hand up to cup Dean’s jaw, and another to squeeze his shoulder. Dean makes a small noise, not entirely pleasured.

“Mm. Sorry, dude, I have a big, uh, fuckin’ bruise there,” Dean says. Cas withdraws his hand. He remembers the slam when Dean hit the wall, the loud, breathy noise Dean wasn’t aware he had made. Cas blinks rapidly a few times. “I am sorry,” he says. Dean answers with a peck on the lips.

“Dude.”

Cas starts to apologize again and doesn’t. He kisses Dean, more urgently. This is Dean. He has stubble on his jaw, scratching Cas with each kiss. Dean, who smells of pine deodorant and car oil, twining their tongues together in the wet, airy space between their teeth. Cas nips Dean’s tongue and his bottom lip. Dean presses stubble-sharp kisses on Cas’ jaw. Dean’s hair is freshly shampooed, some coconut and flower concoction he would never admit to liking. The kisses he trails down Cas’ neck are open-mouthed and swirled tongue.

“Wait,” Cas mutters as Dean gnaws at a sweet spot right where Cas’ shoulder meets his neck. Dean retracts obediently and Cas pulls off his shirt.

Castiel knows the moment Dean registers his tattoo, because he goes from an animal sort of hungry to a soft if confused sort of wonder. His mouth is slightly parted.  
Then, he leans forward and kisses Cas’ chest. Starting at his chest, where the words are still there, in their curling script: Non timebo mala. To his shoulders, where he blooms with more. Dean’s eyes trace the vines and twisting tree trunks, which spindle down into several groups of flowers. Dean takes a minute to decide, then plants a gentle kiss on Cas’ right shoulder, where rests a clump of little white flowers with green centers, and little green buds growing around it.

“Pear blossoms, for friendship,” Cas explains, eyes fluttering at the soft kisses. Dean traces the flowers with his finger. “For Sam. Jo. Ash.”

The next group was one he liked the best, despite the fiery pain as the artist reached the crook of his elbow: thick-stemmed flowers with heart-shaped lilac petals.  
“Acanthus, for art. Jo’s recital. Jess.” Dean’s laughter. Sam’s eyes.

Dean reaches Cas’ elbow and plants a wet smack in the ditch before sliding over to Cas’ other shoulder. Different flowers. This one itched like hell, and Castiel had fought off the urge to scratch for the last three days. Deep pink flowers, with a million ridged petals all crushed up against each other.

“Carnations, for a mother’s love. Adra, Ellen.”

Dean’s kiss melts the itch away.

Castiel feels Dean hesitate on the last group, rubbing his thumb along the pale blue flowers as if he knows already what they mean. A cluster of blue flowers each with five petals and a ring of bright yellow in the center.

“Forget-me-nots. True love.”

Dean stills. Cas cups Dean’s head in his hands.

“For Alfie. And for you.”

Dean kisses him like it’s the first time.

“That’s,” Dean says between kisses, “Fuckin’ beautiful, Castiel.”

“You are.”

Dean kisses down Cas’ arm, teeth grazing at the forget-me-nots, then licks a stripe up to the spot on Cas’ neck he stopped at before. He goes to town, licking and sucking at Castiel’s skin.

“Fuck,” Cas groans, leaning closer into Dean.

Dean stops again, his face turning red.

“Uh. Do you, do you want to?” He asks, looking from Cas to wherever he threw his bag.

Fucking. Castiel thinks about it. Fucking. As in sex. With Dean. Fucking, as in sex with Dean Winchester.

“Yes,” he says. Then amends, “Nothing, um. Penetrative.”

“Uh. Okay. We can do that,” Dean stammers, “Or uh, not do that. Yeah. Okay. Can I still, uh, touch you? With my hands?” He winces, and Castiel chuckles. Dean is probably kicking himself for his less-than-eloquent word choice.

“Please do,” Cas answers.

Dean very much does. He starts by snaking a hand under Cas’ shoulders, gripping his shoulder blade and a little lower on his back. Then, Dean kisses down Cas’ chest, swirling his tongue and blowing a breath on the wet spot, which makes Castiel arch into him. Dean’s hands are rough against Cas’ back, but his tongue is warm, and wet. Dean kisses Cas’ nipples, nipping and tugging at the piqued, pink skin. Castiel moans, and grabs for the sheets, for Dean’s shoulder, for anything just to have more of that. Dean responds with a smirk against Cas’ chest, and the hand that was on Cas’ spine is now on his nipple, rubbing in small, circular motions. Dean’s tongue does the same on the other. Dean pinches.

“Dean,” Cas whines, “Deandeandean.”

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean mutters, then kisses Cas’ chest again. And lower, Dean trails his mouth over Cas’ sternum, around the curve of his ribs, licks an unfortunately ticklish spot near Cas’ navel. Cas yelps and shoves Dean without thinking. Dean stills, and Castiel tries to sit up and apologize, but a hacking cough comes out instead. Cas shoves his nose into his forget-me-nots, and coughs, and coughs. His face grows warm. With his free hand, he gropes around the nightstand. He finds smooth skin of the tissue box, and the loose pages of his book, but not what he’s looking for.

“Cas,” Dean says, his voice coming from very far away. Castiel crosses two fingers of his free hand and sticks it up to Dean. Sign language R. He moves his hand into a loose, flat fist, with his fingers resting on his thumb. E. He points one finger up. D. Dean dives to the dresser and the cool plastic of Cas’ inhaler is being pressed into Castiel’s hand. Cas fights a cough, and puffs once, twice, and his shoulders drop. His red inhaler falls to his lap. He breathes.

“I am okay,” He says. “But please be careful.” He smiles sheepishly at Dean.

Dean laughs.

“Will do, captain.”

Castiel lowers himself back onto the bed. He puts his inhaler on top of the book, lest he need it again. Dean positions himself over Castiel again, but lower, so his mouth is parallel with the bright scar climbing Castiel’s hipbone. Dean’s breath is warm over Cas’ damaged skin. He kisses a long, slow line from the top of Cas’ hip to the edge of his pants. Cas takes the hint and shimmies out of them, leaving only his blue boxers and the cool night air between them. Dean kisses down the sharp line of Cas’ hips, tonguing at Cas’ scar a little more until Cas bucks his hips against Dean’s throat.

“Okay, tiger. Can I--” Dean starts.

“Yes,” Cas breathes. Dean huffs a little laugh against Cas’ underwear.

Dean strips off Cas’ underwear, revealing his straining erection to the lamplight. Cas tilts his head up and catches Dean’s eyes, which have blown dark. Dean licks his lips. He blinks.

“Uh, hang on.”

He leans off the bed and there’s a zipper unzipping, some plastic shuffling, and Dean returning to Castiel. His mouth is pursed and a bead of sweat rolls down his chest. He studies the silver wrapper for a second, then glances at Castiel. Cas’ face heats. Dean tears the condom wrapper open and pulls out the yellow rubber. Cas shifts up to rest on his elbows, and Dean puts the condom on.

The skin of Dean’s hands are rough, but he works the condom down quickly, leaving a pinch of space at the top. Then he squeezes, and pumps. Castiel marvels at Dean’s hands; his silver ring shining and the light bruises all but disappeared in the dim lamplight. Dean rubs Cas’ dick down with both hands and back up, working in rhythm. He thumbs Cas’ head, and pumps faster. Cas breathes small, shallow huffs.

“God,” Cas huffs. Dean sticks his tongue between his teeth and pulls harder, squeezes, and Cas bucks into his hand. Dean grins. Cas whines. Dean tugs him faster, leans down and places kisses on Cas’ inner thighs. He rubs Cas’ balls with one hand and his dick with the other. Cas wants to cry.

Dean makes a noise like a question and Cas replies in affirmation.

Dean’s lips meet Cas’ cock through the condom, and licks a stripe up to Cas’ head. Cas grabs at Dean’s hair. Dean mouths Cas’ dick, swirling tongue around his head. Finally, finally, finally, Dean swallows him. Dean’s mouth is wet, and warm, and he tongues at Cas as best he can. He bobs up and down on Castiel, each suck smoother than the last. His cheeks hollow with each suck; his mouth is wide to keep his teeth out of the way. They snag a little, and Cas makes a disapproving noise, and Dean hums an apology around Cas’ head and then it’s fine, it’s all fine. Dean strokes one hand down to the base of Cas’ cock where his mouth can’t reach. Cas’ head spins. Dean is fucking beautiful.

Eventually Dean pops off to squirt a cool, clear liquid into his palm, and then onto Cas’ dick. Strawberry lube, Dean tells him, tugging hard at Castiel.  
It doesn’t take long after that, with Dean working Cas’ dick with his hands and his mouth. God, his mouth, Castiel never dreamed Dean’s mouth could feel that good around his cock, humming and sucking and fucking. Dean is beautiful, through Cas’ rolling eyes, cheeks hollow around him, and Castiel is coming, floating off the bed and away from the lamplight, bucking into Dean’s throat.

“I love you,” one of them murmurs, although for the life of him Castiel could not say who.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of thoughts about this chapter. First, Castiel's conversation with his mother was one of those things that just came out as I was writing the chapter. I had originally fucked up and started writing this chapter from Dean's point of view, so I had to scrap it and start over. Hence, Castiel has a Sad Cry Talk with his mother.  
> My next thoughts are about the sex in this chapter, so feel free to skip this if it's not a topic you're comfortable with.
> 
> First, I decided to have them do oral sex only because I resent the ideas that are so prevalent in US culture as well as in fanfiction, that penetrative sex is the only "real" sex, and that the other stuff is only warm-up. So, blowjobs it is. Not that either of them are complaining.  
> Also, safe sex is important! So I made sure to include explicit consent and condoms.  
> Also fun fact, this is my first time writing a sex scene! ;)


	24. The

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for talks of death and mortality

Dean is going to burn a hole in the damn carpet. He knows it, and he knows the look Sam is giving him over the top of his glasses. But he can’t stop. He shuffles to the door, wishing he could see through the wood so he’d know exactly when Cas pulls up. Then he kicks himself because that’s a stupid thought, he’s being stupid, this is stupid.

He progresses to the kitchen, where Gabe is sleeping on the table and Sam is petting him with one hand. A baseball game plays on the TV; Dean recognizes the announcer’s voice, but doesn’t process anything he’s saying. John is on the couch with his feet up on the new coffee table, nursing a beer.

Dean withdraws to the laundry machine, kicks it to get it started, folds a couple shirts hanging out on the dryer, and turns back around to the front door. Sam watches him between page turns. Gabe’s yellow eyes follow Dean’s every move. Dean thumbs at the bruise on his collarbone, which is stinging but not as raw as the week before when Cas gave it to him. The look on Sam’s face when Dean rolled in, hickies littering his neck and jaw, was fucking priceless. John had given him a sour look, but congratulated him anyway. He asked about the girl; Dean made one up.

The look Sam’s giving him now is the polar opposite of the one he gave last week: now he’s worrying a hole in his lip, furrowing his eyebrows in concern.

“Don’t give me that look, Sammy,” Dean says. He sounds more like John than he’d care to admit.

“Stop pacing! It’s freaking me out.”

Dean stops, halfway between the door and the table.

“What’s eating you?” Sam asks.

“Nothin’,” Dean answers automatically. No, that's not cool. He clears his throat and starts over, “Just… Cas. He had a doctor’s appointment today, and, and, you’ve seen him. I’m worried, man.”

Sam looks down into his lap.

“Yeah, I’ve seen him. But it’s just Cas, dude. Your --” Sam darts a look at the TV, “best friend. He’ll be fine.”

Dean isn’t convinced.

“He’ll be fine,” he echoes anyway.

Dean makes another few rounds from table to washing machine, when Adra’s car finally, finally pulls up. Dean yanks the door open almost before Cas gets up the steps. There’s a pleasant breeze wafting through the trailer park, whipping one of the neighbor kid’s hair back as he circles around his house on his bike. Castiel is bound in a thick, dark grey sweatshirt, and his trenchcoat. He isn’t smiling.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says softly, grinning anyway.

“Let’s go for a walk, Dean,” Cas says. He coughs. Dean swallows. Cas has a knuckle-white grip on the railing. Dean sticks out his bare arm and Cas closes his skeletal fingers around it. Cas’ hand is cold.

One of the trailers in Dean’s neighborhood still has their Christmas lights up, dangling unlit in the late afternoon light. Cas treads slowly between the houses. He coughs several times along the way, even stopping once to collect himself. His hand never leaves Dean’s arm. It’s years of slow, trudging steps until they reach the bench, shrouded in trees. It’s the same bench they sat at months ago, when Castiel admitted the first time he was sick. Where they went after their first date. Dean would take the frosty cold, the wind stuck in his throat. Anything, _anything_ except this, watching Cas sits down, lowering himself slowly, the same way Dean has seen Bobby do a few times, more frequently as the years go on. Dean sucks in a breath.

“Dean…” Castiel starts. His voice is heavy in his throat. Dean plunks down beside Cas, slinging his arm over the back of the bench so he can finger at the neck of Cas’ coat. Cas turns to him. His eyes, as blue and as serious as the sky, are wet. Cas’ hand comes up, cups Dean’s jaw. “Oh, Dean.”

It reminds Dean of his mother Mary. Gentle. Sad. Dean’s heart pounds in his ears.

“What’s wrong, Cas?” His voice breaks on Castiel’s name. Cas’ hand falls to his lap.

Castiel is silent for a long time. The wind rustles some budding petals loose. They swirl to the ground and stop at Dean and Cas’ feet.

“I do not have very long.”

Dean blinks.

“What? You just got here.”

“No, Dean,” Cas looks at him, heaving breath from his lungs. He does not look away. “I do not have… very long.”

Trucks zoom by on the highway behind them. The neighbor kids laugh and screech and chase each other around the yard. The wind whistles through the trees.There’s no way he heard Castiel right. There’s no fucking way.

Cas has a set jaw and tight shoulders. A soldier’s posture.

But what can a soldier do when the battle is inside him?

Very slightly is Cas shaking.

What to do when the soldier is losing?

“The doctor said I have an infection,” Cas says, choosing his words carefully, “Burkholderia cenocepacia. In a healthy person, this would be nothing. But in someone, someone like me…”

Dean goes very, very still. He heard Cas this time, it was impossible not to: every other sound, the traffic, the children, the wind, all faded, leaving Dean with only the gravel of Cas’ voice in his ears. _In someone like him._

Cas turns towards Dean, leans into the fingers Dean forgot were resting on Cas’ neck.

“We are doing everything we can, believe you me,” Cas says. Dean feels Cas’ voice vibrate against his fingertips. Dean rubs the spine bumps protruding there. Cas leans forward. Dean pulls back, his hand falling away.

“You’ll be fine, though,” Dean insists, “There are antibiotics you can take, or that fuckin’, that fuckin’ inflatable vest thing you have. You’ll be fine,” Dean isn’t sure when he stood up, but he’s in front of Cas, wringing his hands. Cas leans against the bench looking like a scarecrow on a cross. Dean presses a fist to his lips. His mother’s ring is cool against his mouth.“A diagnosis isn’t a fucking death sentence. The damn doctors don’t know how to do their jobs, that’s what Bobby always says. Always screwing things up. You’re fine.”

“Dean,” Cas’ voice cuts through the bullshit. Castiel holds his hand out. “Come here.” Castiel is exhausted.

Dean hesitates. Cas’ hand is skeletal, and foreign at the end of Cas’ coat. Cas is staring at him, his lips tight and his eyes unblinking.

Dean is being stupid. This is Castiel. Dean’s boyfriend. His best friend. Castiel. A bookworm. A poet. A goddamn angel.

Castiel, drowning in coats, and the awful, brilliant blue of his eyes.

Castiel, the love of Dean’s damn life.

Dean takes his hand. It’s cold. Castiel twines their fingers together. Dean brings them up to his mouth and blows hot air on both of them.

“My, my mom used to do this,” Dean says between long, hot breaths over their fingers, “I would throw a damn fit every time it got cold out, so she’d take my hands and blow on ‘em til I could feel my fingers again.” Dean snorts. Castiel gives a small smile, and looks away. Castiel looks back, staring, and tightens his grip on Dean’s hand. He opens his mouth to say something.

And closes it.

Castiel coughs.

He opens his mouth again.

“Dean,” Castiel says. He squeezes Dean’s hand, hard, not at all comforting. He coughs. “Shut up.”

Dean blinks.

“Uh--”

“Shut up, Dean. I know you’re going to say I’m sorry for myself, so I’m telling you to shut up now. Dean… Dean. I need you.” Castiel’s eyes are wet. “I need you.”  
Dean moves closer. He takes a deep breath. He needs him. Castiel needs him.

“Yeah?”

Dean almost falls forward when Cas pulls him in.

“I just,” Cas mutters into Dean’s hair. “I need you.”

Dean lets himself droop, leaning over Cas with his arms around Cas’ neck in an almost-hug. Castiel breathes ragged and shallow. He smells of cinnamon and sweat. Dean’s heart is stuck in his throat.

But Dean isn’t the one dying here, even though he feels like it.

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs, pressing his lips into Cas’ hair. “I’m sorry, dude. Cas.” He moves to sit down, keeping his arms around Cas. Rage kicks in his chest, but he swallows it. Cas coughs, and it echoes in Dean’s lungs. Dean rubs circles on Cas’ neck. “Uh, what, what do you need? What can I do?”

Castiel sighs and plants his chin on Dean’s shoulder.

“I do not know,” Cas admits. “I do not know.”

Something is breaking in Castiel. His shaking becomes more violent, and a loud, wet sob erupts. Dean peppers kisses up the side of Cas’ head. He holds Castiel tighter.

“That’s alright, man,” Dean says, “That’s alright. We’ll figure something out.”

___________

The timer on the toaster oven clicks away, sizzling the french fries to crisp, crunchy goodness. A few minutes ago, Sam had nudged Dean to flip them. Thank God, otherwise they would’ve been a lopsided, potatoey mess. That would be the worst fucking tragedy in the world.

Sam had to nudge Dean just now, to remind him to actually close the toaster door. Gabe mews at him.

“Right,” Dean says, shaking his head, “Right. Sorry, Sammy.”

Sam watches him close the toaster door, check his phone --nothing--, and check his phone again as soon as he pockets it. Nothing. Damn it. Sam starts to ask something, but is interrupted by a rough voice.

“Is it done yet?” Comes a hoarse voice from the other room. Fuck. John sways as he stands up, rubbing a thick hand over his stubbly chin,“I didn’t think it took all fucking year to cook french fries,” he says, glaring at Dean.

“It’ll be done when it’s done,” Sam snaps from his place at the table. Dean tenses.

“Excuse me?” John sneers. “What did you say to me?”

Sam sneers at his homework.

“You heard me.”

Dean moves. He’s in-between the kitchen table and the couch before John can move half a step towards Sam.

“You’d think a son would have some fucking respect for his father,” John mutters, loud enough so all three of them can hear it. “But I guess that’s a pipe dream in this day and age.”

“Shut up,” Dean doesn’t realize it’s his own voice speaking until John snaps his head up and glares at him. That look is enough. Something in Dean’s chest breaks. It boils. He slams a fist down on the arm of the couch. “Shut the fuck up, Dad.”

“Boy--”

“Don’t boy me! The only reason you’re fucking here is because Bobby chased you out with a shotgun on your ass.”

“Chased me out? Show your father some fucking respect! You owe me your damn life!” John shouts, “You wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for me.”

“Fuck you! You haven’t been our fucking dad since mom died! We don’t owe you shit!”

John stills. Then he rages.

“Listen here, Dean,” John spits, jabbing a finger at Dean’s chest. “Don’t go messin’ in things you don’t understand.”

Dean laughs. It’s an honest laugh, but it’s too high in his throat, too constricted by what he doesn’t want to let out.

“Don’t understand? I understand a fuck lot more than you do, Dad,” Dean spits back. He shoves his father. John stumbles. “You think Mom wanted this? You think she’d be proud of you, you lazy, alcoholic burnout?”

John’s eyes widen. He hesitates.

“She’d be sick! You know that, don’t you?” Dean asks. He doesn’t give his father time to answer. A single tear has started to leak out. “Fuck you. He doesn’t deserves this.” Dean chokes.

John blinks.

“What? Who the hell are you talking about?”

“Castiel! Castiel deserves life more than you! You’re throwing yours away while he’s--”

Dean can’t finish his sentence, so he shoves, hard. John falls backward, grabbing for the coffee table as he goes. His beer spills, sticky and carbonated all over the floor.

Dean whips around. He slams his fist on the kitchen table. Sam and Gabe are staring at him, wide-eyed. Dean gestures to the door.

“Come on, Sammy, let’s go.”

Sam scrambles up. Gabe swishes his tail at them.

“Dean, the fries,” Sam urges.

“Leave ‘em,” Dean says.

The door shakes on the way out.


End file.
